Everyday People

by Louis Barr

  Early this beautiful Sunday morning, I cut a perfect white rosebud from my backyard garden and headed to Devin McLean’s final resting place. This being the City of Angels where nothing is ever too strange, of course there’s a story here.

  The crypt of a handsome actor who’d died in the early 1960s was located right above the final resting place of the movie industry’s beautiful blond bombshell of the same era.

  The handsome actor’s elderly widow, strapped for cash, disinterred her husband’s ashes and gave him a burial at sea. She then offered the valuable prime-location vault to the highest bidder.

  Devin loved beautiful women. I thought the vault right above the blond bombshell’s final resting place the perfect spot for Devin’s ashes. I went in exceedingly high, and won the bid.

  After Devin’s remains were interred with military honors, I was handed the folded flag that had covered his urn. As Vona and I walked away, she told me that for seventeen years, my father had paid Devin to serve as my stand-in dad.

  Devin McLean had been a lifelong bachelor with neither family ties nor children of his own. He’d been my mentor, hero, role model, confidant, and friend until I went to the Point.

  Over the weeks since Devin’s death, I’d come to appreciate one of life’s cast-iron certainties: We’re all the products of the children we used to be. For the first seventeen years of my life, Devin never failed me and had always given me his best.

  I walked in leaf-dappled sunlight to the memorial park’s stone wall of crypts. I slipped the white rose into the bud holder, then wiped a few specks of dust off the bronze plaque reading “Devin Patrick McLean.” Beneath his name were the years of his birth and death. At center bottom: Semper fi.

  Brothers in arms, I snapped a salute then whispered, “Oorah, Devin.” I owed him so much more.

  I’d return each month to pay my respects. It was the only thing I could give him for all he’d done for me. I would never forget him.

  I started for home to spend the rest of Sunday with Ian. We’d talk, swim, and sit in the shade at the poolside table, playing his new love, cards. I’m not talking Go Fish or Crazy Eights. Oh, hell no, Ian loved to play blackjack. (His buddy Sage taught him the game.) I’m all but certain Ian counted cards and knew when the odds favored him to take another hit on sixteen or seventeen. Maybe my little boy was simply lucky; that, or a card shark in the making.

  Fatherhood had provided me with another of life’s cast-iron certainties: I loved my son unconditionally. I’d learned all about absolute love and trust from Devin.

  And like a gold watch, I would hand down Devin’s teachings to Ian.

  Epilogue

  Wefts And Warps

  Clint, Hollywood and Highland Center, Seven Months Later

  Aunt Vona despised ostentatious displays of wealth. She drove a slightly dented, six-year-old Impala to work, where she wore off-the-rack business suits and office casuals. She lived in a ranch-style house in the West Los Angeles neighborhood of Beverly Glen.

  But on Hollywood’s biggest night, she went balls out, so to speak. Riding in the back of a limousine service’s chauffeured stretch, she looked elegant in her Dior haute couture with enough diamond bling to give off a sparkle or two under the lights.

  Our hired white land yacht inched along the queue of limousines and hybrids, heading south on Highland to the Hollywood Boulevard drop-off point. From there, we had a short walk to the red carpet.

  Nominated for best actor and best supporting actress in Peter Remington: A Deadly Match, newlyweds Raoul Martinez/Raul Martin and Vanessa Holmes held hands in the back seat of the stretch. Mars, Vona and I sat in the seat facing them.

  “We’re about four minutes to the drop-off,” the chauffeur announced.

  Vona, Raul, and Vanessa each pulled down a lighted mirror.

  Vanessa touched up her lip gloss.

  Raul added a spritz to an unruly strand of hair.

  Vona gave her understated makeup and hairdo a final check.

  The three of them snapped the lighted mirrors shut.

  I tapped Raoul/Raul on the knee. “In this light, you remind me of Brad Pitt in his younger days.” I quickly added, “But you’re better looking.”

  Vanessa looked closely at her husband. “You know, in the shadows, you do look like a young, blond, and way more gorgeous Pitt.”

  Raoul/Raul chuckled, shaking his head. “Thanks, but I think you’re both hallucinating from my finishing spray’s fumes.”

  It hadn’t been easy, but I’d convinced Mars to get his wild blond curls trimmed, shave off the two-day stubble, and play “Mr. Dress-up” in a black tux, white shirt, cuff links, and a bow tie. I’d insisted he would wear neither designer flip-flops, nor cowboy boot sandals, nor go barefoot to the Oscars. I’d handed him a new pair of black Salvatore Ferragamo formal loafers.

  I leaned forward to look at Mars’s big feet. He hadn’t removed his shoes.

  Mars and Doc Grant Stenton had helped me come to terms with the greatest tragedy of my life, losing Sierra. During my final talk therapy session, I’d told Doc Grant that Mars had asked me to move in with him.

  Grant said, “And you’re hesitating because?”

  “My life and everything in it is perfect. I don’t want to change a thing.”

  Grant smiled and shook his head. “Here you are worrying about upsetting the apple cart, and you know goddammed well the apple cart always gets upset.”

  I loved Doc Grant’s therapy directives.

  So Ian, Heathcliff, Sammy, and I moved into Mars’s steel, stone, and glass circular multilevel, an architectural design Ian said looked like a house from The Jetsons.

  I’d put my white colonial on the market. Diana Danning bought it for Shane. After closing on the property, I showed Shane how everything in the place worked—from the water softener, to the programmable thermostats, to the self-cleaning oven, to setting the timer on the underground sprinkler system, to arming and disarming the burglar alarm. I taught him the basics of tending what were now his shrubs, flower beds, lawn, and roses. But you don’t acquire a green thumb overnight. I’d continue working with him.

  But I took my potted orchids to my new home, knowing they’d die on Shane for the sole purpose of spiting him. Orchids can turn seriously pissy that way.

  Shane and I regularly talked, laughed, and sat together over coffee or a drink. After he’d been reissued his FAA fit-for-flight medical certificate, he kept his alcohol intake to a single beer.

  Shane and I had grown as close as two brothers could get. Ian hero-worshipped his uncle Shane, as he adored his “Uncle Martian.”

  During one of our brotherly talks, I’d asked Shane if he had ever been a compulsive gambler.

  He’d chuckled. “I’ll make a wild-assed guess on that one. My ex, Kristina Morgotti, told you I had a gambling addiction.”

  I’d nodded.

  “Hell, bro, I’ve never made enough money flying the wild blue yonder to piss a dime of it away in a casino.” He smiled. “And starring in porn isn’t as easy as it looks. I don’t waste my ill-gotten booty either.” He’d sighed. “You know Krissy is a frigging drama queen. And I’ll guess she gave you a sob story about my faithless love. Then she asked you to fuck him.”

  “Uh-huh, but I declined the offer,” I said.

  Shane shook his head. “She earns an ass-ton of money by making shit up and delivering it with flair. She doesn’t know how to turn it off. Kristina and Kristopher are about as bat shit as one person can get.”

  I guess I’d known it.

  The same way I’d known Mars had called it right: The white colonial I loved held too many memories of my life with Sierra.

  Mars studied my face in the limo’s semidarkness. “You’re thinking again. Stop it. This is your night to celebrate.”

  He was right. I knew this year’s Oscars belonged to Steele Productions. Peter Remington: A Deadly Match had received rave reviews during its November platform release. The movie opened nationwide on Th
anksgiving, and continued to break box office records. I smiled inwardly. Steele Productions had gambled on the making of a multimillion-dollar movie that seemed all wrong demographically in the minds of most industry moguls.

  But the “all wrong” movie became not only a holidays hit, but was on the way to becoming the blockbuster of the year.

  In addition to best actor, supporting actress, and the grand prize, film of the year, Vona’s and my roll of the dice had netted numerous other nominations, including screenplay, editing, music, sound, cinematography, and best director. All too familiar with Hollyweird’s politics, I knew a clean sweep for Steele Productions wouldn’t likely happen.

  But then again, it might.

  I squeezed and released Mars’s hand as the limo rolled to a stop at the drop-off point. “Sparkle time,” I told him. Then I checked that he was still wearing his shoes.

  Raul Martin stepped out of the stretch’s door and smiled at the cameras as he gave Vanessa a hand to the sidewalk. The two walked onto the red carpet leading to the Dolby Theater.

  The fans seated in the bleachers went wild, screaming and snapping photos of Raul Martin and Vanessa Holmes, putting the LAPD officers handling crowd control on edge. One never knew when a crowd of adoring fans might turn into a mob.

  Vona, Mars, and I stepped out of the white limo. He and I walked on either side of Vona, whom I suspected would be named director of the year.

  We could not guess what we’d encounter in the wefts and warps of our lives. We couldn’t predict the outcomes of our decisions in relation to life’s vagaries.

  But with Mars’s cyber nerd mad scientist genius, his spirit of a child, and the smiles that went all the way to our eyes when we were together, I knew we could keep each other happy and young at heart for the rest of our lives.

  And for the first time since I’d lost my wife, I looked forward to finding out what awaited around the next corner, and the next, and the next.

  So spin the Fates.

  About the Author

  Louis Barr (http://www.louisbarrauthor.com) directed a federal civil rights program for forty years. He and his spouse reside in suburbia, where they are owned by their two cats.

  Barr enjoys hearing from his readers but believes cell phones, text messaging, and social media are indicators of civilization’s decline. You can send Barr a letter by old-fashioned email at: louisbarrauthor@gmail.com.

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Everyday People by Louis Barr. When film star Diana Danning hires private eye Clint Steele to find her son, Clint turns to his former West Point barracks mate, and ex-buddy with benefits, Mars Hauser to lend his cyber espionage and digital black ops skills to the case.(978-1-63555-698-8)

  Cirque des Freaks and Other Tales of Horror by Julian Lopez. Explore the pleasure of horror in this compilation that delivers like the horror classics…good ole tales of terror. (978-1-63555-689-6)

  Royal Street Reveillon by Greg Herren. In this Scotty Bradley mystery, someone is killing the stars of a reality show, and it’s up to Scotty Bradley and the boys to find out who. (978-1-63555-545-5)

  Death Takes a Bow by David S. Pederson. Alan Keys takes part in a local stage production, but when the leading man is murdered, his partner Detective Heath Barrington is thrust into the limelight to find the killer. (978-1-63555-472-4)

  Accidental Prophet by Bud Gundy. Days after his grandmother dies, Drew Morten learns his true identity and finds himself racing against time to save civilization from the apocalypse. (978-1-63555-452-6)

  In Case You Forgot by Fredrick Smith and Chaz Lamar. Zaire and Kenny, two newly single, Black, queer, and socially aware men, start again—in love, career, and life—in the West Hollywood neighborhood of LA. (978-1-63555-493-9)

  Counting for Thunder by Phillip Irwin Cooper. A struggling actor returns to the Deep South to manage a family crisis but finds love and ultimately his own voice as his mother is regaining hers for possibly the last time. (978-1-63555-450-2)

  Survivor’s Guilt and Other Stories by Greg Herren. Award-winning author Greg Herren’s short stories are finally pulled together into a single collection, including the Macavity Award–nominated title story and the first-ever Chanse MacLeod short story. (978-1-63555-413-7)

  Saints + Sinners Anthology 2019, edited by Tracy Cunningham and Paul Willis. An anthology of short fiction featuring the finalist selections from the 2019 Saints + Sinners Literary Festival. (978-1-63555-447-2)

  The Shape of the Earth by Gary Garth McCann. After appearing in Best Gay Love Stories, HarringtonGMFQ, Q Review, and Off the Rocks, Lenny and his partner Dave return in a hotbed of manhood and jealousy. (978-1-63555-391-8)

  Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks by ’Nathan Burgoine. Cole always has a plan—especially for escaping his small-town reputation as “that kid who was kidnapped when he was four”—but when he teleports to a museum, it’s time to face facts: it’s possible he’s a total freak after all. (978-1-163555-098-6)

  Death Checks In by David S. Pederson. Despite Heath’s promises to Alan to not get involved, Heath can’t resist investigating a shopkeeper’s murder in Chicago, which dashes their plans for a romantic weekend getaway. (978-1-163555-329-1)

  Of Echoes Born by ’Nathan Burgoine. A collection of queer fantasy short stories set in Canada from Lambda Literary Award finalist ’Nathan Burgoine. (978-1-63555-096-2)

  The Lurid Sea by Tom Cardamone. Cursed to spend eternity on his knees, Nerites is having the time of his life. (978-1-62639-911-2)

  Sinister Justice by Steve Pickens. When a vigilante targets citizens of Jake Finnigan’s hometown, Jake and his partner Sam fall under suspicion themselves as they investigate the murders. (978-1-63555-094-8)

  Club Arcana: Operation Janus by Jon Wilson. Wizards, demons, Elder Gods: Who knew the universe was so crowded, and that they’d all be out to get Angus McAslan? (978-1-62639-969-3)

  Triad Soul by ’Nathan Burgoine. Luc, Anders, and Curtis—vampire, demon, and wizard—must use their powers of blood, soul, and magic to defeat a murderer determined to turn their city into a battlefield. (978-1-62639-863-4)

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