Amy’s Big Coming Out, Continued
“If you don’t come out of there, I’m coming in,” Amy said.
The boots wiggled again, but made no move to right themselves and come out.
“Okay, I lied,” Amy said. “I’m not coming in that stinky dumpster. But I am going to tell you what I need to tell you and if you don’t like it, then… well, then you don’t like it, that’s all. So there. I’m a lesbian. At least I think I am. I mean, I’m pretty sure I am. I mean, I am. I’m in love with a woman. And we’ve kissed. Several times. And I liked it. I’m going to kiss her again. I’m going to kiss her as much as possible and I even bought new underwear. I hope you won’t disown me or be embarrassed by me. It is my wish that you will accept Jordan, that’s her name, I want you to accept Jordan as my significant other. That’s all.”
There was no answer from the dumpster.
“That’s all I wanted to say.”
Silence. No movement.
“The end.”
Amy stared at the boots. They didn’t move.
“You can respond now.”
Nothing.
“Mom? Are you okay in there?”
Amy was gripped by a fear that her mother had suffocated under the heap of stinky, gooey dumpster stuff. She quickly mounted the side of the dumpster, yelling, “Don’t worry! I’ll save you!” and dove inside head-first.
Amy pushed off the bottom of the dumpster with her feet and swam to the top. Her head broke above the surface of the trash and she gulped down fresh air. She was face to face with the turquoise boots. She grabbed them both and pulled with all her might.
The boots came away easily and the force of her pulling sent her reeling backwards. She plopped into a corner of the dumpster and stared at the boots in her hand.
“Hey, what’s the idea?”
Amy looked up. An old woman stared back at her. The woman had only one tooth and her face was as wrinkled as a dirty dishrag. “Those’re my boots!” the old hag yelled. She grabbed the boots out of Amy’s hands, jumped overboard and scurried down the alley.
“Sorry, I thought you were somebody else! My bad!” Amy called after her.
Amy’s Real Coming Out
Amy stood on the front porch of her childhood home and rang the doorbell. She hadn’t been home since the day she left for college. She nervously shifted from foot to foot. She was determined to really tell her mother and get this over with.
Meet Claire Stewart. Claire may have been fifty years old, but she looked more like forty. She was the summer of love personified – tie dye, moccasins and beads and bangles. She always had a smell of incense or patchouli about her. When Claire opened the door and saw Amy she smiled and grabbed her in a hug. Claire was a big hugger. “Amy! What a wonderful surprise!” She took a step back and her face darkened. “Nothing’s the matter is it?”
“No,” Amy said quickly. “I just wanted to… I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by.” Amy could kick herself. Where had her courage gone?
Claire pulled Amy into a big hug. Then she held Amy at arm’s length and wrinkled her nose. “You’re a little stinky, sweetheart.”
“Um, yeah… Can I come in?”
Amy followed Claire through a spotlessly clean house and into a sparkling kitchen. Not one piece of junk anywhere. Wow. Amy was flabbergasted. “Where’s all your dumpster stuff?”
Claire laughed. “I rented a storage unit to store all my art supplies. Coffee?”
“Sure. So, what made you decide to clean up the house? And what happened to your boots?”
“Well, it’s a little embarrassing to tell the truth. One day I got a phone call from a Hollywood producer.”
Amy raised her eyebrows.
“He wanted to know if he could interview me for his TV show.”
“Really? What show?”
“It’s called American Hoarders.”
Amy laughed out loud before she could catch herself. She clasped her hand over her mouth, saying, “Sorry. That’s not really funny.”
Claire laughed along with Amy. “Yes, it is funny. It wasn’t then, but it is now. Anyway, that gave me the impetus to clean up my life. And as for the boots, I threw them away, too.”
“I like the place now, Mom. It looks and feels like a real home.”
“Thank you, sweetie. Now what did you come to tell me?”
Amy didn’t know where to begin, so she just opened her mouth and hoped for the best. “I came here with a purpose. A reason. I need to tell you something.”
Claire put a cup of coffee in front of Amy and sat across the table. “Is this about you being a lesbian?”
Amy spit the coffee. “How did you know?”
Claire smiled. “It was in the paper, dear, I think the whole city knows by now. And I have to say, I’ve never been prouder.”
“You’re proud that I’m a lesbian?”
“No, silly, I’m proud that you are creating art. I mean, the doctor thing is wonderful, but creating spontaneous art heals the soul. Your soul and the souls of others. I’m glad that you can not only heal bodies, but can heal souls.”
“You’re not freaked out that I’m going out with a woman?”
“God, no. To tell you the truth, I didn’t care for that Chad fellow.”
“Chad? How do you know about Chad?”
“He came over here one day and got some of your old things.”
“What things? When?”
“Nothing important, I don’t think. Some old stuffed animals from your childhood, your yearbooks from school. Hasn’t he told you yet? He was getting the things to give to you as a surprise. I hope I didn’t ruin it.”
“Did he say or do anything, you know, unusual?”
“Well, he did call me mother. I thought that was strange.”
Amy decided enough was enough. She was going to give Chad a strong talking-to. And get her things back.
Claire continued, “Anyway, I’m glad you got rid of him. Now tell me all about this young woman of yours. Does she love you? What does she do? Is she as pretty as she looks in the paper?”
Amy laughed at her mother’s inquisitiveness and told her all about Jordan. About her fall from the window, how she stitched her up, their first kiss, everything.
“What do you have planned for the rest of the day?” Claire asked.
Uh oh, Amy thought, here it comes. She’ll want me to go dumpster diving with her. “I don’t know…” she stuttered.
“Well, I have the perfect thing. Why don’t you go to the bathroom and freshen up some? Maybe brush the coffee grounds out of your hair?”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” Claire said. “Now go splash on some Patchouli, baby, you really do smell over-ripe.”
A Big, Fat Gay Wedding
Ten minutes later, Amy was wearing a tie dyed dress of Claire’s. She had so much patchouli splashed on that she smelled like she just got back from a Grateful Dead concert. Claire squeezed them both into the Smart car and directed Amy to the posh side of town.
Amy chanced a question she had long wanted to know the answer to. “Did you love Daddy?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did he love you?”
“In his way,” Claire said. “Take the Columbia exit. The house is in the Kenton District. I think he was in love with the idea of being in love but whenever love got deeper and required a fuller commitment, he flitted off like a humming bird at a feeder. Now turn right on Denver.”
Amy turned. She hoped she didn’t inherit her father’s genetics. The flitting part, anyway. She didn’t want to be a hummingbird. She wanted to be a penguin. They mated for life.
“You can park right here.”
Amy pulled over in front of an old yet beautifully restored Victorian house. Everything was perfect and very coordinated and looked like Martha Stewart lived here. Then it dawned on her. “Do gay men live here?”
“They do. It’s their wedding we’re doing the decorating for.
”
“And they’re letting you?”
“Lillian is the decorator. I’m just her helper. C’mon, Lillian will be so happy to see you again.” Claire opened her door, then froze, looking back at Amy. “You don’t have to come in. If you don’t want to.”
“Of course I want to,” Amy said.
Claire’s face lit up and Amy realized at that moment that she’d been steering clear of her mother for a long time and it was hurting her. She hadn’t meant to hurt her, but she had. She felt immensely guilty and resolved to spend more time with her mother from here on out.
Claire rang the door bell that was shaped like a fleur de lis. It was brass and was polished recently, probably every day at ten sharp.
Meet Desmond Quartermaine. A perfectly turned out man with heavy brows and thick dark hair opened the door. In a voice that seemed on the verge of hyperventilating, he exclaimed, “Oh my God, Claire, you’ve got to help. It’s a disaster!”
“Desmond, this is my daughter Amy. She’s a lesbian.”
If Desmond was shocked by Claire’s pronouncement he didn’t show it. He barely nodded at her before grabbing Claire’s arm, pulling her into the house and pleading, “It’s a disaster, Claire, you have to help.”
“Where’s Lillian?” Claire inquired.
“She’s in the pond.” He fanned himself with his hand.
“Why is she in the pond?” Claire asked as Desmond lead them the most perfect house Amy had ever seen.
“Because of the frogs. That’s the disaster. It’s like one of the seven plagues on Egypt. Frogs everywhere!”
They followed Desmond through the house at such a brisk pace that Amy only glimpsed flashes of divans, ottomans, book shelves lined with leather bound copies of books, gilded table lamps, tasseled pillows and lots of gold brocade.
When they stepped out the back door and into the yard there was a gazebo, a myriad of benches strategically placed, perfectly manicured hedges, and several gazing balls. And in the thick of it all was Lillian, wearing a pair of hip waders and standing in the middle of the pond with a net in her hands.
Meet Lillian Drake. Lillian made perfect look easy. She called everyone darling and blew air kisses. Even in hip waders, her lipstick wasn’t smeared and her hair didn’t look messy; it looked windblown. She was overweight, but bore the weight like it was a privilege and something to be admired.
Claire and Lillian had been best friends since their sorority days. They were an odd match, but inseparable. What Amy found so interesting with Lillian was that she supported her mother in whatever endeavor she took on, no questions asked.
“Amy!” Lillian said, putting the net down and slogging across the yard. “Darling, how are you?” She wrapped Amy in a warm embrace and air kissed both her cheeks. “I haven’t seen you in ages. Come let me look at you.” She looked Amy up and down. “You look more like your mother every day.”
“Well, I am wearing her clothes,” Amy said, trying hard not to feel self-conscious.
“Amy is a lesbian now,” Claire said proudly like Amy had won the Nobel prize.
Lillian’s eyes widened. “Really, dear? That is wunderbar.”
“Now about those frogs,” Desmond tittered.
“No worries, I think I’ve gotten rid of them and their soon-to-be offspring,” Lillian said.
“They were so disgusting,” Desmond said, flapping his hand in front of his face. “Nature is so…”
Claire filled in, “Natural?”
“Disgusting,” Desmond said.
Lillian whispered sotto voce to Amy, “It’s the green sludge he doesn’t like.” Lillian sat on a bench and began to tug off the hip waders. She was having difficulty getting them off. It was like trying to peel a sausage. Amy took a boot and pulled. “Thank you, darling.” Together they removed Lillian from the hip waders.
“Now, Desmond,” Lillian said, taking his arm. “Why don’t you make us some of that divine lemonade of yours and we’ll take a break and regroup afterwards. That way we can all catch our breath.”
Desmond seemed delighted. “That’s a marvelous idea.” He lifted a small, discreet walkie talkie to his mouth and commanded, “Bring a pitcher of lemonade and five glasses. Miss Lillian is parched from her frog killing spree.” He turned back to Lillian and said, “You are my savior. You are my Rambo of the pond. The Terminator of frogs. Whatever would I do without you?”
“You would manage, I am sure, darling,” Lillian said.
Desmond looked at his watch. “Oh no, the yo-yo’ers will be here soon.” He put his hand to his forehead in a very theatrical swoon . “I wish Evan didn’t have his heart set on the yo-yo’ers for entertainment. It’s so tasteless. The cabaret thing I wanted at least had class.”
“Desmond, we talked about this,” Lillian soothed.
“I know. I know. It’s his wedding too,” Desmond said, pouting. “It’s just so tawdry,” he muttered as he walked toward the house.
“And cabaret dancers are so high class,” Lillian muttered.
“So, this seems like a rather unusual wedding,” Amy said.
A young woman came out holding a silver tray with a cut-glass pitcher of fresh lemonade and five glasses. “Is this where the sane people gather?” she asked.
Meet Janice Cohen. Janice was very pretty under the military buzz cut and facial piercings. She even had a nice body, if you could find it under the extra large sweatshirt and baggy gray chinos. Her aura screamed feminist, but her lingering gaze at Amy whispered lesbian.
Lillian looked relieved. “Oh darling, thank goodness you’re here. He’s out of control again.”
Janice set the platter down. “I know. He’s hyperventilating all over the kitchen.”
“But, I got all the frogs and the green stuff. The pond looks fine,” Lillian said. “I mean it is a pond; it’s going to have pond stuff.”
“No, it’s not that,” Janice said, pouring lemonade all around. “Now, he’s fighting with Evan about the yo-yo’ers.” She handed Amy a glass of lemonade. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Janice. Desmond’s friend, but don’t hold that against me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners,” Lillian said. “This is Amy. She’s a lesbian.”
“It’s nice to meet you. Why haven’t I seen you out before?”
“Out?” Amy said.
“You know, in the clubs. Or events. Or potlucks,” Janice said.
“She’s a brand-new lesbian,” Claire said. “A late bloomer.”
“Fresh meat,” Janice said.
“Huh?” Amy said, alarmed. She nervously gulped her lemonade.
“Have you been initiated yet?”
Amy slowly shook her head and took another gulp.
Janice leered and wagged her eyebrows. “Maybe I can initiate you, then. It doesn’t hurt. Much. Well, it only hurts the first time. I need a new toaster oven anyway.”
What was this woman talking about? Amy was befuddled. Befuddled? Was that really a word? Or was it confuddled? She was confuddled and befused.
Janice took her arm. “Are you okay? You looked like you were going to faint. I was only kidding. Lesbian humor. It was a joke.”
“Oh,” Amy said and forced a fake-sounding chuckle.
“So who’s the girl?” Janice asked.
“Girl?”
“Yeah, what lucky woman rescued you from the bondage of heterosexuality?”
“Oh. Her name is Jordan March.”
“You’re dating Jordan March, the Jordan March?” Janice said.
Amy didn’t know exactly how to take this. Did she mean to imply Amy wasn’t good enough to date someone like Jordan March or that Jordan March was a bad person to date?
“Unless there’s another Jordan March,” Amy said, tentatively. She almost hoped there might be two of them and Amy got the good one, not the one this woman knew.
“She’s tall, gorgeous, talented, witty and lives in that crazy house in the old part of town where all the mansions are?” Janice said.
Lillian and Claire were conspicuously silent. Amy knew they loved getting the info without having to be the ones to extract it. She could feel their eyes on her.
“Yep, that’s her.”
“How’d you manage that? She never dates anyone especially after the Ice Queen episode.”
Lillian couldn’t help herself. “Ice Queen?”
“She was Jordan’s last girlfriend. Her name is Petronella and she’s a professor at the University and she’s a poet and she is the nastiest person I have ever met. She’s having some big poetry reading thing at the New Little Theatre tonight. I’m going.”
“So am I,” Amy said. “I mean, Jordan and I are going.”
“Can straight people come, too?” Lillian said.
“Sure,” Janice said.
Lillian poked Claire in the ribs with her elbow. “Let’s go crash the lesbian party. It sounds fun.”
“Oh, Petronella’s poetry isn’t fun,” Janice said. “It’s angry. You know how Rita Mae Brown’s cat, Sneaky Pie Brown, started writing mystery novels? Well, Petronella is now writing poetry with her vagina. She’s named it Vagina Woolf.”
Claire clapped her hands. “That sounds wonderful! Maybe I can get some ideas for my sculptures.”
Before Amy could object to her mother crashing her date, there was the sound of metal crashing against metal, and a high-pitched scream. The back door was thrown open and six muscular, oiled, naked men strutted into the back yard with their doodles dangling. They lined up in a chorus line, and began to yo-yo and kick step in perfect synchronization.
Claire and Lillian sat in rapt attention. Amy and Janice exchanged a confuddled look. “I think that’s my cue to leave,” Amy said.
Dry Run
Jordan, Edison and Irma were in their backyard making last minute preparations for their attack on Petronella at her vagina’s poetry reading. They had dubbed their revenge attack “Operation Meltdown.”
“Three hours, ladies,” Jordan said. “We have only have three hours to get this right.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Edison said. “We’ll be ready. Then her angry vagina will be a sorry vagina.”
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