“You did the right thing, Caster. Nicely executed. It’s why you’re perfect for helping me and Guy with the parade’s floats.”
“Speaking of the floats,” he said, lowering his tone, which sounded concerned. “I think we might have a little problem, Landon.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Follow me, and I’ll show you.”
I followed him around the two Peace, Love, and Gay Marriage! floats and made a right, heading towards a large area covered in float supplies: paint, cardboard boxes, paint thinner, commercial-size staplers, saws, a variety of lumber and paper, glue, and two containers of turpentine, and buckets for papier-mâché, faux flowers, and an assortment of white banners.
Then Caster walked me to…
“Holy shit,” I whispered, staring at a giant penis in a field of what looked like a grouping of naked, gay aliens.
Caster pointed at the penis. “There’s the problem, Landon. It’s supposed to be a rocket.”
I studied the five-foot Styrofoam penis, a galaxy of rainbow-colored stars, various moons, and a distant sun. To the right of the humungous shaft was an American flag and a sign that read: Equal Rights! The New Frontier!
Flabbergasted, I admitted, “That’s not a rocket. It’s an erection.”
“The only thing its missing are two balls and some cock-juice spitting out its top like lava.”
I laughed at his comment, although he wasn’t being sarcastic. “Who’s doing this float?”
“The Dandy twins. Dane and David.”
Enough said. They were in their early twenties. Nice guys. Cute as hell. Michael Phelps look-alikes. Dane was queer as Tinkerbell. David liked women, but supported gay rights, including marriage. Both were fun, youthful, and immature.
“You’ve dated Dane a few times, right?”
Caster nodded. “He likes bears and calls me Daddy.”
Frankly, rumor in Southton had it that Dane Dandy was all over Caster Ray as soon as the man was titled the Best Pittsburgh Bear. Dane loved bear dick and immediately went after Caster. As far as I had learned, mostly from my hairdresser, Bradley Tanks, Dane hadn’t landed Caster yet, but still had the daddy bear in his crosshairs.
I humphed and asked, “Did you bring this dick to the twins’ attention?”
Caster shook his head. “I haven’t, but intend to today. They’re coming by later. It must be changed. We can’t have a giant penis float among all the kids visiting the parade. The LYLSED committee will throw a hissy fit, as well as the liberal church ladies.”
“Exactly. Tell them to change it to a space station or UFO shaped like a saucer. Anything but a dick, though.”
Caster couldn’t help but chuckle. “Biggest dick I ever saw,” he said. “Wouldn’t mind at all having fun with that thing.”
“I agree,” I told him. “Gay Dane must be a size whore to create a such a thing.”
He agreed. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the twins. The giant penis will be removed, and something appropriate will be added.”
“Thanks for handling this,” I told him. “Bobby would faint if he saw a gigantic dick floating through Southton.”
“I disagree with that. That guy loves dick as much as Dane Dandy, if not more. And everyone knows it. The bigger the cock, the better ride for Bobby.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at his comment. “Be nice, Caster. We all like dick, if you think about it.”
We walked away from the humongous cock on the twins’ space odyssey float, ending our meeting.
* * * *
May 9
Lots of rain, mixed with some thunder and lightning, made the city its hostage. Everyone showed up for work at Studio 8, Stage L. Bless them.
The new episode of Guy-Spell went off without a hitch; thank God for small miracles. My boyfriend interviewed Kal Dabbenworth, the oil-on-canvas artist who created the successful Steel and Man collection of paintings; a set of thirty-four paintings of different sizes that sold out in a SoHo, New York, show.
Kal Dabbenworth looked as if he were strung-out on methadone. His eyes were sunken into the back of his head, his lips were dry as fuck, and he couldn’t sit still.
Guy sat in his regular, puffy-armed chair and asked Kal, “Your paintings have recently been noted to have naked men in them, usually in sexual positions among Pittsburgh buildings. Do you want to explain that?”
Kal scratched the unshaven fuzz on his left cheek, shrugged, and shifted left to right in his seat, acting uncomfortable. He blinked several times, wiped his nose, and finally answered the question. “The male body is beautiful, just as buildings are in this stunning city. Who doesn’t like to look at men and their genitalia among steel, glass, and iron?”
Neil Carmen and Lucy Bender looked impressed with Kal’s response and a little shocked by the word genitalia.
I stood behind the usual monitor and watched the show, not surprised in the slightest regarding Kal’s comment. Kal Dabbenworth liked to jolt and please his followers and anyone straight who just happened to be watching and listening to him.
Guy cleared his throat and looked down at the light blue notecards in his palms. “Do you currently have a love interest in your life?”
“I’m not at liberty to mention any names, but I can say we have quite the fun threesomes together and enjoy each other’s company.”
“So, you have two boyfriends?”
Kal smiled. “Of course. Doesn’t everyone? If not, then they should.”
“Do these men inspire you as an artist?”
Kal cleared his throat, sniffed, and blinked a few times. “Let’s just say there isn’t much painting going on when they’re around. I like to keep the naked pair at my beck and call, if you know what I mean.”
Guy asked ten more questions and eventually thanked Kal for being on his show. Then Guy introduced an Eli Lieb-like performer named Carr Meadow, who sang his new release called “Two Men.”
Carr Meadow could have been a model. He had ice-white hair, green eyes, and a flawless complexion. At twenty-eight, he had been interviewed by Guitar and Rolling Stone. Plus, his music had sky-rocketed up Billboard’s chart with hits “Sun of Mine” and “Poltergeist.” Guy-Spell’s audience went nuts, cheering him on, dancing at their seats. Even Guy danced a little in his seat, snapping to Carr’s feisty beat.
Following Carr’s performance, Lucy cut to a toothpaste commercial. She said into her headset, “Good show so far, everyone. Next up is the shocker.”
Confused, I looked down at the script and saw Guy’s next guest was Margot Field, a pastry chef from a downtown bakery called Pellon. Per my notes, Margot was going to whip up a chocolate pie with Guy’s sloppy help. Honestly, there wasn’t anything shocking about her bit. Margot had been on the show six times, performing popular and entertaining cooking skits. The audience loved it when Guy baked with her, creating a laughable catastrophe. Truth told, the woman was a complete bore and stuffy. Had it not been for Guy being a horrible baker, spilling vanilla here and there, breaking glass cooking bowls, and creating puffy clouds of flour while attempting to bake, Margot probably wouldn’t have been asked to appear on the show again. Guy made it a fun bit by using slapstick skills and his undeniable charm. No wonder he was a television star with comedic talents.
I pressed one of the buttons on my headset and asked, “Lucy, what’s the shocker? I don’t have it in my notes.”
Lucy ignored me, sidling up to Neil, talking to him with her headset off.
I clicked another button and asked our audio man, a friend of mine outside the show, “Chett, what’s the shocker?”
He looked at me from his illuminated panel of plastic knobs and gadgets in front of him, shrugged, and answered me with, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re going to get a slice of chocolate pie after its made. Guy’s probably going to spill pudding everywhere, or so he mentioned to me.”
Three commercials passed, and the show was back on. Guy stood in a kitchen setting but wasn’t
wearing an apron. On the countertop in front of him sat three canisters: sugar, flour, and cinnamon. He looked directly into camera one, smiled, and said, “Today’s a special day. Something different.” He winked at the camera. “We all like a little different, right?”
The live audience positioned behind me clapped and roared in agreement.
After Guy calmed the group down, he said, “I have someone important in my life I’d like you to meet again. We all know he’s a bit camera shy, but hopefully he won’t hide from us.” He paused and started to perspire, which never happened.
I thought, when did Margot Field become important in his life? He’s always called her a complete bore and pain in his ass.
Guy continued, “Landon Brice, can you come up here on the stage with me?”
What? Who? Where?
I looked from left to right, caught off guard, bewildered.
Lucy demanded in my headset, “Get on stage. Don’t ruin this. We have a show to do.”
Still puzzled, I slid the headset off, placed it next to the expensive monitor in front of me, and walked slowly up and on the stage, shaking my head.
Guy said, “Landon’s my boyfriend of three years and…”
My nerves were shot. I hated to be in front of the camera instead of behind it. I couldn’t hear Guy because of the thumping in my ears. My stomach immediately filled with jitters, and it turned woozy. Slowly, I made my way to his side, standing behind the counter and the set of canisters.
Lucy, Neil, Chett, other staff on the set, and the entire audience, gawked at me as Guy faced me. His eyes met mine, solid. Then he reached for my shoulders with both palms and chanted the way he had always talked to me: softly, without any exuberant edge to his voice, being himself, and not the rambunctious talk show host he had mastered being for his audience.
“Landon Brice, you make me the happiest man in the world. You’ve been at my side for the last three amazing years, which have all been unforgettable and the most exciting days in my life. You’re caring, sweet, charming, and the most loving person who has ever walked into my world. You’ve changed me, too, making me softer, real about life, and grounded me, all for good reasons. And today…here and now…” He opened the canister labeled sugar and pulled out a tungsten and silver band. “…I want to know if you will make me the happiest man in all the world, for the rest of our lives together, and marry me?”
I fainted.
* * * *
An hour passed by before I slipped out of that dark and quiet world of unconsciousness. Guy held me in his arms inside his changing room. I looked around: makeup desk lined with an assortment of bright light bulbs, candle burning to my left, a desk covered in what looked like scripts to the show, and a narrow table with empty glasses and plastic water bottles.
He reached for a bottle and instructed, “Take a sip.”
“What happened?” I asked. The water soothed my dry throat. I took another sip and passed the bottle back to him.
“I asked you to come on stage. You did. Then I asked you to marry me, and you passed out. That was almost a half hour ago.”
Confused, unable to remember anything of the event, I said, “You asked me to marry you?”
“Of course, I did. In front of all my viewers and Guy-Spell staff.” He showed me the tungsten and silver band on my hand. “I was giving you this ring when you passed out.”
I looked at the ring, loving its hues. Still confused, trying to put puzzles pieces together, I inquired, “Did I answer you?”
He fervently shook his head. “You didn’t. You passed out. Flat on the floor. Thank God we had the medic handy. Larry is so good at his job. He said you would wake up from a minor fainting spell. He used a compress on your forehead and smelling salts, which eventually brought you to. He stepped out to get his blood pressure cuff and monitor and will be back in a few minutes.”
Speak of the devil, Larry Shumaker walked into the dressing room with his blood pressure instrument, stepped up to me, opposite Guy, stared at me with his beautiful gray eyes, and asked, “How are you feeling now, buddy? You getting some air back inside you?”
“Better. I need more water.”
Guy handed me the bottle of water and told me to keep it.
I took two long swallows of the water as Larry placed the blood pressure cuff on my right bicep, began to pump the device, and watched a hand-held monitor connected to the tool.
After a few pumps, eventually releasing the pressure in the cuff, he said, “Your blood pressure is fine. Let me take your temperature again.” He pulled out a pen-like instrument with a white, cotton-like cap on one of its ends and rolled it across my forehead. “Ninety-six-point-eight. Looks good. You didn’t turn into a zombie and will be fine.”
“What happened to him?” Guy asked, taking the words out of my mouth.
“Just a minor fainting spell. Nothing major.” Larry looked at me and said, “You were probably overexcited about the marriage proposal and being in front of such a large audience, which we all know you’ve never been comfortable with. Something broke down within, and you fainted. It’s a common factor when excitement or shock happens.”
“Should he go to the hospital?” Guy asked, holding one of my hands, gently rubbing its back with his fingers.
Larry shook his head. “No. Take him home, give him some rest, and make sure he drinks plenty of water. All he needs is a little love to get through this. Before you know it, he’ll be back to normal in a few hours.”
Less than twenty minutes later, Guy had me tucked in the passenger’s seat of his Prius, and we headed down Liberty West Avenue towards home.
While holding his hand, I said to him, “Ask me to marry you again.”
He pulled up to a red light and stopped. “I’d like to do that.”
“Because I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So that means you must properly ask me to marry you, without everyone around.”
He chuckled. At the red light, on the corners of Liberty West and Dayton, he held my left hand, fingering the ring on my finger, and grinned. Then he asked, “Landon Brice, will you make me the happiest man and be my husband?”
“I will,” I said with tears in my eyes, bubbling with happiness, thrilled beyond any emotional high I had ever felt in my thirty-eight years. “I will marry you, Guy Montelli.”
* * * *
That evening, Guy and I snuggled on our sofa together, shoulder to shoulder. I fingered the ring he had given me, and he munched on some popcorn. We both agreed to watch the late evening news.
Journalist Casey Shaw, a twenty-something cutie with high cheekbones, close-cut goatee, and almost-amber eyes, said, “Our leading story is quite the breaking news this evening. A mystery fire broke out early this evening at 768 Smay Street in the Southton area. The J. P. Bovane Warehouse went up into flames on its eastern end. Fire Chief Melinda Scroll says the fire was possibly arson-related and caused by gasoline or turpentine, and an investigation will be carried out. No persons were inside the warehouse at the time of the incident. Unfortunately, an area of supplies and one float with stars and a moon were destroyed. Further information will be shared with our viewers as soon as we have it regarding the fire and investigation.”
I sat up and blinked, pointed to the flat-screen, and told Guy, “That was the penis float that burned. It belonged to the Dandy twins. I just saw it yesterday.”
“Dane and David?”
“Yes. Caster Ray said he was going to talk to them about their float. We needed the penis removed because it was offensive. Caster was going to suggest they replace the cock with a UFO or sun.”
“I remember you telling me this at dinner last night.”
“But now the float is burned to a crisp, as well as the supplies the float creators used.”
“Everything can be replaced. I’m sure Caster has insurance on the place. Besides, we needed to get rid of the penis float, anyway.” Guy laughed.
“Not by arson, though.”
He to
ld me to calm down. Then he added, “I’m sure the fire wasn’t purposely set. There was paint thinner and flammable paint in the supplies area. Something like that is what probably started the fire.”
I wasn’t so sure, having a strong suspicion Guy was wrong. Frankly, my gut told me someone wanted all the floats destroyed. The presumed arsonist had failed, though, since the fire department hurried to the scene and extinguished the fire.
“We’ll get more facts tomorrow about the fire, I’m sure,” Guy said. Obviously, he didn’t want to talk about the topic anymore, maybe feeling we were beating a dead horse. “We should get to bed. What do you say? Both of us have had a pretty rough day and need some rest.”
I agreed with him. After turning off the flat-screen, we headed for bed, climbed in together, and cuddled.
I was quite sure we fell asleep within the first five minutes, if not sooner.
* * * *
May 10: Downtown Pittsburgh
Bad boys. Every guy fell for one or two in their dating lives. Mine just happened to be a rough-around-the-edges man named Dax Fielding, a twenty-three-year-old biker from Minneapolis, Minnesota. He had long brown hair, piercings in all the wrong places, skull tattoos on his arms, chest, and dick, and a spitfire attitude. Dax liked hogs, drugs, alcohol, and heavy metal music. He stayed away from commitments, family, and settling down. The Bible was fiction to him. The Pope a joke. The president of the United States a liar. Dax had his own rules, above the law and norms. A true bad boy at heart, all the way.
I was twenty at the time, visiting a friend in Minneapolis, when I met Dax at a summertime party behind my friend’s apartment, next to a city park. Dax and I smoked pot together, did a few shots of Jack Daniels, and kissed. We did some meth, played with his two guns, both Colts, and…
After sneaking away from the party with him, I honestly don’t remember how I ended up on my knees, blowing the guy and falling in love with him at the same time, but I did. By the black and blue marks on my body the next morning, the sex had been rough: hitting, biting, clawing, banging, and pinching. I didn’t care how beat up I was, spending that one night with Dax, finding wanderlust with him, sinning. Googly-eyed, heart tumbling inside my chest, I fell for his badness, head over heels for his rough language, tales of biking around the Midwest on his Harley, and gaining a rich and rough view of life from a traveling man who refused to take the tiniest dose of shit from anyone.
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