Guy and I were a part of the organization committee: floats, beer stands, an eclectic group of food vendors, merchandise stands, fireworks, bands, decorations, lighting, and other festive treats for the public. Our responsibilities as the Float Coordinators/Staff included obtaining contract signatures from float attendees/creators; upholding and processing mandatory float inspections to regulate specified size, weight, and content/context of floats; organization of floats in line-up; and a variety of other specialized duties.
Preparation for the project had been going on for the last two months. As obligated volunteers for the parade project, Guy and I had to attend all meetings, hosted and operated by Benny Bruberry, the Love Yourself, Love Someone Else Day (LYLSED) founder and project leader/controller. Every year, Benny opened his Louis XIV-style ballroom at his bed and breakfast, welcoming all volunteers to help organize and execute the annual function. Kindly, he prepared catered meals for his ten-plus volunteers for the parade, feeding the crew to thank them for their support.
Honestly, the meetings bored the hell out of me, but had to be done. Being part of the Float Coordinator/Staff didn’t take a degree in quantum physics to master. Papers needed to be signed by float teams and turned into Benny, tire pressure on floats needed to be checked, use of materials (flowers, papier-mâché, metals, fabrics, etc.) were inspected for unhazardous properties, float sizes were calculated, and yada, yada, yada.
Guy and I had been part of the parade for the last three years, since we met. Every year, the responsibilities seemed to get easier, since we knew what we were doing. Truth told, I simply sat there among the group of ten minions and thought about peeling Guy’s clothes off and sleeping with the man. Naughty and untamable thoughts of our naked and hot bodies mixing together caused an uproar within my mind. Good for me.
* * * *
Following our meeting, Bobby served an arrangement of foods for the evening dinner with the help of his boyfriend, a barely eighteen-year-old Russian college student named Gleb Smavoski. Gleb sported thick brown hair and fall-into blue eyes, and he played server with silver-plated chafing dishes. The menu entailed southern fried chicken, baked ziti, lemon pepper green beans, twice-whipped baked potatoes, and honey-glazed carrots.
The members of LYLSED sat around three round tables. Bobby, Gleb, and Freddy Frye were seated at our table, which proved to be a mistake on Bobby’s planning, since Freddy hated Guy. During the meal, the two men scowled at each other, seething.
Guy and Freddy shared an ugly history. Everyone who watched The Man Channel understood when the show, Guy-Spell, had first appeared on air, there were two hosts, Guy and Freddy. After three episodes, Guy, the creator/producer of his hit show, realized his audience didn’t care much for his ginger sidekick, Freddy Frye. Bottom line, since Guy owned eighty percent of Guy-Spell, he ended up firing Freddy.
Obnoxious, more of a dick than a man, Freddy didn’t take lightly to Guy’s chopping him from the show. Upset reigned, and Freddy opened a civil lawsuit against Guy, claiming sexual harassment. The ridiculous lawsuit and a string of everyday, slanderous lies turned ugly between the two men. The Man Channel designed a reality show of the turmoil and court appearances of Freddy and Guy’s private lives. To everyone’s surprise, Law and Guys became a hit show, making loads of cash.
The Man Channel had a blast with it; one of its highest rated shows. Ten episodes showcased friends, families, and lawyers to both Guy and Freddy; all key subjects for the show. Screaming matches, fist fights, and open threats were just a few dramas and incidents on the show, none of which were scripted.
In the end, though, Judge Joanne Millhowsen threw it out of court, calling their lives “…madness, bedlam, insanity, an embarrassment to humanity, and nothing I want to be a part of.”
Guy and Freddy still hated everything about each other. They couldn’t be in the same room without arguing, using inappropriate vulgarities, and casual threats. I was surprised they didn’t beat the pulp out of each other.
Unfortunately, Freddy sat directly across from Guy that evening. Both squinted at each other, ready to duel. Guy growled like a pit bull, and Freddy called him an asshole.
I squeezed Guy’s left thigh, knowing he was getting ready to jump over the table, scatter our dessert plates, and lunge his right palm and fingers against Freddy’s throat.
I feared Guy would yell, “You AIDS-infected dickhead! Get out of my face!”
That didn’t transpire, though. At least not from Guy. Thank God.
Instead, I leaned into Guy’s left ear and told him, “Be nice. This is a professional atmosphere. We’re here to represent Southton and gay marriage.”
Bobby realized his seating arrangement error, drew a fist up to his mouth as if he were going to cough inside it, and whispered, “Oh, dear.”
The handsome Russian, Gleb, still extremely wet behind his ears and new to our group, didn’t know what was going on. He asked Freddy and Guy at the very same time, “Do you two men have a problem with each other?”
“We do.” Freddy grunted, red-flared eyebrows and gritting teeth, probably ready to attack my boyfriend.
Bobby leaned into Gleb’s right ear and whispered something. Probably about the ongoing war between Guy and Freddy, and to keep hushed about the topic.
Gleb nodded, now understanding. He hummed, “Ahhhh.”
Guy sat straight in his seat and rattled off in a rather arrogant tone, “We can both be adults about this and let bygones be bygones.”
Freddy huffed, sounding more like a buck in the woods than a dinner guest at an annual gathering among volunteers. Then he snapped, “I’m not forgetting anything, Guy Montelli. You’re a fucking shit licker. Don’t sit there and act like a hero. You tried to fuck up my life any way you could, and still do.”
Final outcome between the two men: Freddy lost it. His ginger face turned a mean shade of fiery, dragon red, and he lunged over the table. Glasses and dessert plates went flying. Forks, elegant coffee cups, and saucers flew in all directions. China crashed all around us, and heads immediately spun in our direction. Think of it as an exploding bomb going off in a beautiful dining room.
What did Freddy do? Make a complete ass out of himself, of course. On his hands and knees, he pivoted on the table’s surface like an angry Minotaur.
“You stupid, fucking sonofabitch, Guy. You need to hurt one of these days.” He slowly crawled away from my boyfriend, backing up a few inches. Then he balled his right fist and flew it into Guy’s mouth before my boyfriend could respond and defend himself.
Guy flew backwards, out of his high-back chair. A thud sounded when his head hit the Victorian tiles. Blood trickled out of his bottom lip and the right side of his mouth.
Freddy climbed off the table and stood, brushing his chest and legs off with both palms, attempting to gather his wrecked composure.
Bobby promptly slid his chair back and stood. He turned, outraged. He pointed at Freddy. “Out! Get out! You’re not welcome here after this, Freddy Frye! And you’re never welcome back! Get out now!”
Well-built and quite muscular Gleb told Bobby in a KGB-like tone, “I’ll escort the dickhead out.” He walked around the table, grabbed Freddy by the back of his neck, and walked Freddy out of the ballroom as if Gleb were a bouncer, practically dragging the man.
“Hands off me!” Freddy yelled at Gleb outside the ballroom.”
I fell to Guy’s side, startled by the pool of blood at his mouth.
Guy wiped blood away from the area with the back of his right hand and mumbled, “Freddy is such an ass.”
Bobby said, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. He’s bleeding.” He pulled a linen napkin off the table and bolted to Guy’s side, also dropping to his knees. Bobby blotted Guy’s mouth with the napkin and asked me, “Should we call 911? Does he have to go to the hospital?”
Guy sat up, moaned, and rubbed the back of his head where it had knocked against the tile. “Don’t call 911. I’m fine. Really, I am.”
I took Guy
in my arms and gently hugged him.
He pulled away from me and said, “I’m good. Let’s not make this a bigger scene than it already is.”
The dinner gathering and early evening at Bobby’s pretty much ended there and then.
Guy stood up with my help and said, “I’m sorry, Bobby, but we’re leaving. The show is over. I apologize about the mess.”
Bobby hugged us goodbye and told us not to worry about anything. He apologized and added, “I’ll stay in touch.”
I walked Guy home, holding him up. He needed rest, which was maybe a bad idea if he had a concussion.
“We should sue the bastard for attacking me,” Guy said.
I vehemently shook my head. “No more lawsuits. We’re leaving him alone.”
“He needs to leave us alone.”
I wanted to tell him to stop being a child, but he had his own brain and could say and do whatever he wanted.
“He can be such a dick and…”
We walked side by side, heading back to our apartment. I held him by the waist, helping him keep his balance. Nearing our apartment, he fortunately dropped the topic of Freddy Frye. Thank God.
* * * *
May 7
Springtime in the city. I loved it.
All the windows were open inside the apartment, and a cozy, gardenia-scented breeze floated from one end of the place to the other. Robins chirped, and squirrels chattered in the trees, foraging for food or city friendship. City life could be a bitch sometimes. The loud neighbor, the strong smell of old garbage, and sirens in the middle of the night. It was the price you had to pay for being a city dweller. But experiencing the five senses of springtime as a city dweller was always nice, in my opinion, welcoming.
Guy loved city life just as much as I did, coming from a far away and distant farmhouse in Indiana, a suburb called Lucy just outside of the college town of Bloomington. Bullied, hated, and on the brink of suicide, he left Lucy at nineteen and moved to New York City with two of his friends. Because hustling wasn’t what he thought it would be—the last scene in Pretty Woman—he took acting classes at The Cynthia Davenport-Nelson College in the Bronx and obtained a degree in theatre. Thereafter, he acted in a few off-Broadway plays, barely capable of paying his rent.
Then he met Rodney Collins. RC to his friends. They bumped into each other at a queer bar called The Purple Umbrella near the school Guy attended. RC liked Guy’s blond looks and blue eyes, hit on him, bought him a drink, and the two became lovers. RC worked in television, in Pittsburgh. He owned and operated a company called Midway Communications and Media (MCAM). He made a few million from producing infomercials. Guy worked under him, literally, after moving from New York to Pittsburgh. They loved each other and lived together for ten years, producing short, independent films outside of their lucrative infomercials. Aligned Beauty. Culprit Reveals. Sunny Shade Along the Ohio River. Their movies didn’t win any awards, although they were recognized by Cannes and Sundance.
In 2010, at forty-one, Rodney Collins dropped over dead from a heart attack in his shower. Guy had his master’s degree in film from Pitt by then. He found his lover almost three hours after RC’s collapse in their city apartment. Following the tragedy, Guy accomplished two things: being a man-whore by sleeping with a variety of men, and writing the pilot to Guy-Spell, a gay-oriented entertainment talk show about food, Hollywood, fashion, and anything entertaining.
Monty Davis, a bigwig at the fresh network called The Man Channel, just happened to be one of RC’s best friends, and gave Guy-Spell’s pilot a chance. Lo and behold, it turned out to be a smash. Men and women loved it. The Man Channel went national, and Guy-Spell became its leading show.
Guy Montelli became a Pittsburgh headliner, recognized in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. He appeared on many Logo and Bravo shows, had interviews with Jimmy Fallon, James Corden, and Ellen DeGeneres. Then he met me: Landon Brice (me!), his next endeavor.
* * * *
My life wasn’t as grand, episodic, and dramatic as Guy’s. I grew up in Pittsburgh, not very far from Southton. I was the only child to Mary and Hilliard Brice. Some would have called me a spoiled little brat while growing up, but that wasn’t true. Mary kept a thumb on me and instilled within me manners, love, and respect. Hilliard taught me to be strong, understanding, and liberal.
My parents realized I was gay at thirteen and told me, “Be yourself. Don’t hide who you are. The world will adjust to differences, although it may be a rocky ride for you.”
I honestly didn’t have a rocky ride during high school and college, finding support from LGBTQIAP groups. I attended gay pride parades in the city and discovered gay bars when I was eighteen. After high school, almost graduating at the top of my class, I obtained a degree in film from Hemmer College, a liberal school in downtown Pittsburgh for artists, dancers, actors, singers, and film students. Then I started at WCPH, a local Pittsburgh station, as an assistant and worked my way up to executive editor.
Three years ago, Barney Mitfire, a big executive at Guy-Spell, asked me to have lunch in a downtown bistro called Milano’s. We had a simple, kind history. Barney and I attended Hemmer together, became friends, and then boyfriends for two weeks. Somehow, someway, we stayed friends over the years without having sex.
At Milano’s, he confidentially asked me, “How happy are you at WCPH?”
I wanted to stay sober during the meeting and had ice water with lemon. “Depends on what you have in mind, Barney.”
Bottom line: Guy-Spell doubled my salary and made me a third assistant director. I couldn’t turn down the money and job. The rest became history.
* * * *
Surprisingly, Guy didn’t have a headache the next morning after his fall at Bobby’s bed and breakfast. Rather, he had a hard-on and demanded of me, “I want to use this dick on you, Landon.”
I didn’t reject his request, stripped him out of his clothes, pleasured him with my mouth, caused him to grunt, grown, push, pull, and…
We made love for an hour, rolling around on our bed. Sticky with our loads on our chests and sporting deflated cocks, I lay in his arms.
“I love you, Mr. Landon Brice.”
“You should marry me,” I told him.
“Someday.”
“You’ve been saying that for six months now.”
“I’m waiting for the right time.”
“I might run away before that happens. There’s a thousand queers in this city who want to marry me. I may have to find one soon.”
He chuckled, pulled me closer to him, and kissed the top of my head. “Doesn’t matter. They’re not like me. You’ll be back with me after realizing they’re all fakes. I give you two weeks.”
I chuckled. “You’re probably right.”
“Probably?”
I kissed him, shutting him up, and decided to seduce him again, taking advantage of his Hollywood-like body for all my selfish, sexual needs. Good for me.
* * * *
May 8
I had the day off, but Guy had to work. Hal Collier filled in for me. I spent the springtime morning reading, checking my personal email, and chatting on the phone with a few friends. Then I had lunch at Benny’s Sub House with another friend, salads and iced teas, and enjoyed some guy-talk for an hour.
Following lunch, I had an hour meeting on Smay Street, which was a short cab ride from Benny’s. I told the cabbie to drop me off at 768 Smay, paid the woman, and studied a building called the J.P. Bovane Warehouse. Painted shabby yellow, the brick building stood four stories high. Its wide exterior sported gang-related graffiti and massive garage doors. Windows skirted its sides, some broken.
I entered the place through a small door and walked into a space that housed nine parade floats. I went from one float to the next, studying each. Most were red, white, and blue, or a rainbow of hues.
Two had giant banners reading Peace, Love, and Gay Marriage! One looked like a castle with two, three-dimensional cardboard princes kissing in its stone-like
turret. Another one was shaped like the Titanic, breaking in half, sinking into cardboard water painted with swirls of bright blues. I imagined two beefy, tuxedo-clad men hanging onto its upright railing like Rose and Jack in James Cameron’s movie, both men kissing.
I stared at a float shaped like a church’s interior decorated with a pulpit, steps, and pews, and imagined husband actors positioned on the float with a preacher and guests at their wedding. One float stood out and caught my eye, although all the floats were quite good. I guessed the float was called Love Wins! because of its circling giant banner in bright, spectrum colors. An upright, wooden structure shaped like the United States revolved in the float’s center. Equal Rights! was painted in sparkling pink on both sides of the structure.
Caster Ray, a voluntary, self-appointed float manager, and the owner of the warehouse, found me, hugged me, and asked, “How are you, Landon?”
“Well,” I told him, providing his bear-frame with a hug.
Caster had won the Best Pittsburgh Bear Pageant (BPBP) the last two years. He stood at five-eleven, had enough bulk on him for two men, and showcased a nicely trimmed beard. Hulking, handsome, and hearty came to mind when describing him. A great carrier of the BPBP crown and trident, he had pride in his community position.
“I heard about the ugly incident at Bobby’s last night. How’s Guy’s head?”
I rolled my eyes, realizing how quickly news floated around in our small, gay community. “He’s fine. Just a little bump. No concussion. He went to work this morning without any complaints. As they say in show business, the show must go on.”
“Good to know.” He lightly punched my right shoulder. “That Freddy Frye can be such a demon. I loathe him. He comes around here and thinks he owns the place. The last time he was here, I told him to get hell out because he had nothing to do with the floats.”
I was pleased by his news and said, “Good for you. He should know better.”
Obviously pissed, Caster added, “Everyone who’s part of the Love Yourself, Love Someone Else Day knows he’s in charge of the vendor booths. Does he really think he can try to boss me around regarding these floats?”
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