Preparing for the Holidaze

There always seems to be a bit of frivolity around the holidays and I revel in it.  Meeting new people has never been my forte but when it happens I am always glad to have been part of it.  You can never tell how a first meeting will turn out but with a little luck, a vivid imagination, poetic license and the addition of one (or several) martinis there’s sure to be a winning story.

I must be honest. Thanksgiving was fast approaching and I looked forward to “chilling out” and hibernating through the day. By virtue of my profession I need to be “on” from the moment I walk through the door until the bitter end of the work day. Since Robert and I had become “disengaged”, Thanksgiving and all holidays have become built on new traditions.

There had always been a cloud of familiarity when it came to the holidays. How they were spent was always patterned out, tried and true; it worked beautifully.  On this occasion I had been prompted by friends to spend Thanksgiving with them.

“Do you have plans?” they asked. 

“I haven’t decided, but I’ll definitely let you know in a few days.”

In truth I wanted to stay at home, cook a small turkey and wallow in the sadness of my solitude.  I made the fateful phone call and left a message on my friend Danny’s voicemail.

“I’ll be there, just let me know what to bring.”

I thought it peculiar there’d not been a return call; usually Danny and his wife, Lee-Ann, a southern belle, both pounce on the opportunity to return a message. Perhaps they were busy; eventually it would come.  It did.

“There’s been a change in plans,” Lee-Ann said, “We’ve been invited to Leo and Heddy, you know, our son- in- law Gray’s parents for Thanksgiving.  Do you want to come?”  It reeked of a set up; they’d waited until the day before Thanksgiving; how could I back out now and what would I use as an excuse?

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

I was practically stammering to get the words out.  Truthfully I felt like dowsing my body with gasoline and taking a lighter to it rather than spend the holidays having to be "perky". I had yet to meet Leo and Heddy formally though I vaguely recalled a meeting with him in the bathroom at the wedding.

Leo had been standing at the urinal next to mine, his hand propped against the wall and said, “Liquor in, liquor out; get it? Lick her out!” He guffawed at his own humor and left the men’s room without a drop of water coming near his hands.

The quip extolled his masculinity; he’d found a deeply profound meaning behind his words but they were lost on the likes of me; I simply rolled my eyes, my stomach wanting to wretch at the thought.

I was hesitant to meet anyone right now.  Reflective and somewhat glum were the emotions I was feeling lately and now the directive to be “on” was handed down. The one thing I could not have foreseen was how “on” this experience would prove to be.

Lee-Ann, a once small time beauty queen from the south with a “Georgia peach” drawl, expounded the virtues of their newly bonded relatives. To Lee-Ann making the grade was paramount and her eldest daughter, Deanna, had done so through the legal “tying of the knot”.

“Why, he owns a truck load of real estate in Nuh Yahk City and a three bedroom apahtment on Pahk Avenue and she’s simply a doll; always put togetha and involved in just about ev’ry organization.”

Apparently Lee-Anne had never urinated beside her daughter’s father –in- law.

My mental image was that of a hard to digest couple with 2.5 children and a home near Pound Ridge, either stayed and perfectly “Martha-like” or over the top "nouveau riche"; it could go either way.  Leo was, for a man of fifty-six, very attractive with mop of hair that crowned his head, thick and speckled with grey. I imagine he’d probably posed for a “Brooks Brothers” ad during his college years while rowing crew.

Heddy, his wife, had probably been a cheerleader but now, slightly thicker around the middle, sat on the board of the Junior League and every entertainment committee in their community. I’d painted an outwardly, somewhat accurate portrait until the ball started to roll.

As the day approached I wondered what to bring as a gesture of hospitality.  Unsure of the meal, other than the turkey, or their individual likes and dislikes, I decided on a batch of butterscotch blondies.  What could be “homier” than the taste of brown sugar and butter cooked down to a rich, caramel consistency?  If I was heading into “Martha” country, I needed every tool available at my disposal.

Over the river and through the woods we made our way to our final destination with my emotional frailty in tow.  There, with a view to rival any I have seen, sat the home of our host and hostess, the “feather in the cap” of my dear friend’s extended family members.

Thankfully, the magnificently appointed home, sat high on a hill, perfectly manicured and graciously overlooking several valleys of the Connecticut and New York landscape.  Like a feudal manor, the house towered above the rest, overlooking the rooftops of its neighbors; those below must salivate with envy for not having this view.

I was glad to have dressed in conservative clothing rather than my usual “over the top”, somewhat cutting edged garb.  After the fact it became apparent that had I gone “full on” homo, I probably would have fit in without the blink of an eye; at the very least it would have added to the cast of characters.

My entrance was typically “Keith”.  Everyone made their way into the house through the garage for there had been a dusting of snow and it would be remorseful to track it in the grand foyer.  Lingering behind, to assess the situation, I gathered the butterscotch cookies from my car.  Finding myself alone in a large entry I climbed the stairs to get to the kitchen where my confection would find a home.

In the distance, from somewhere seemingly far away, there was the echoing of the familiar voice of Danny but I could not find him anywhere.  I heard the guffaw of men laughing, women chattering and the clanking of plates, or pots, on a counter.

“Where in the hell am I and how did I get here?” 

I was slightly panicked since all I could see were numerous bedrooms. Down multiple hallways and around perfectly aligned corners I finally found the circular balcony, with its white candlestick balusters and rich wood railings, which overlooked the foyer.  Below, the relatives gathered, jabbering all at once.  I had no idea how I’d arrived at my destination but knew I had to get below to the crowd.

Hiking the platter of brownies above my shoulder, held as a waiter would carry them I made my way down the wide, grand spiral staircase. In unison the family turned their heads and watched my approach.  I was Norma Desmond in “Sunset Boulevard” descending the seemingly endless staircase thinking, “I’m ready for my close- up, Mr. De Mille.”

“Heddy, I have no idea where I’ve been and no clues as to how I got there, but am reliev--, uh, pleased to say you have beautiful bed linens.” 

If I was to make a first appearance it would be on my own terms.  I handed the tray of cookies to our hostess with a sociable kiss “hello”.  Extending my hand to Leo I hoped he’d washed it since waking and performing his morning “duties”.

“It’s good to see you.”

I put myself out there with no regret and was genuinely welcomed. Wide smiles and laughter warmed my entry; could it have been my spontaneous wit or the fact that the whole family had begun drinking two hours prior to our arrival?  I would venture to guess the latter. 

So here we were; Leo and Heddy, their three children, Grayson (my friends' son in law) and Grace (his twin) and their older sibling, Greer. In addition was their grandmother, “Binnie”, who had recently suffered a stroke, prompting her to repeatedly say, “Hey, hey, hey” or "Cute, cute, cute" and of course my personal favorite, a cousin warmly referred to as “Little Maggie”, 36 years old and mentally challenged but adding a tremendous measure of spice to the pot. Put it together and voila, there were all the ingredients for a memorable celebration. Toss in Danny, with his mildly catatonic view of the world as well as Lee-Ann and Deanna and the script would write itself.

Like all good families residing in the countryside of "Yankee territory", the beverages were lined up, like the inventory of a car lot just waiting for someone to take a test drive, along the counter. To the right were the vodka and gin, to the left the champagne and smack in the middle was a vast array of wine; there wasn’t a single can of soda within twenty feet.  Accompaniments such as olives, lemon and lime twists and Maraschino cherries served as the hors d’oeuvres. After two glasses of champagne I summoned up the courage to ask for a glass of water, wondering if anyone actually knew what water was.

“Uh, do you mind; may I have a glass of water?”

Leo looked at me dumbfounded, like I’d asked for a vial of hemlock.

I wanted to say, “You know, the stuff that comes out of that chrome thing called a faucet.”

“Sure, sure, why yes, if you want to kill the buzz. Gray, rustle up a bottle of water for Pete.” Somewhere in the vast manse there had to be one.

“Say Pete, haven’t we met?”

“Uh, it’s Keith. Well, yes, once, at the wedding, in the men’s room.”

He looked at me with a blank stare. Perhaps he thought his judgment had been skewed by his alcohol intake causing him to partake in less than “manly” behavior.

“Liquor in…” I said.

“Oh, yes, Christ yes, did it work for you?”

“You’re kidding, right?” He winked and slapped me on the back.

At one point, while standing in the kitchen I noticed a trickle of water beneath Heddy’s legs.  I wasn’t sure if she’d just wet her pants or if there was a water leak from behind the cabinet.

“Heddy,” I said cautiously pointing to the floor, “What’s that?”

“Oh my, I don’t know.  Greer, what do you make of this?”

Greer looked unaffectedly at the tiny stream, shrugged her shoulders and said, “You pissed your pants,” and walked away as if it were a daily occurrence.

“Leo, what do you make of this?”

Leo looked at the aqueous stream piddling across the hardwood floor and said, “You pissed in your pants.” It was in fact the dishwasher that was “pissing”.

It was clearly an effortless endeavor to spend time with this troop, especially after a few cocktails.  By the evening we felt like kindred spirits; more over we’d become like family. It had been hours since a morsel of food was eaten and the cocktails were now imploding everyone’s sense of rational thinking. 

In the midst of all the chatter “Little Maggie” rose from her seat and made her way to the kitchen to inquire about dinner.  I was certain Heddy had forgotten to turn the oven on in her, well, “state of mind”.

“Little Maggie” was quite astute despite her disability. I immediately garnered great respect for this woman; you knew exactly where you stood with her. Almost child like, her candor was a breath of fresh air especially for those of us who deal with the public on a daily basis pretending to care about trivial matters that have no real substance.  

With no rhyme or reason she began to whoop and run around the room howling, “Woo, woo, woo, woo, woo!!”  She was imitating a Native American on the war path, a scene from a Thanksgiving play she'd participated in during the prior week; I was exonerated from any silly or depraved behavior I may have potentially brought to the table.

"Cute, cute, cute," Binnie kept repeating over and over again as she clapped, "Cute, cute, cute!"

Grace, Grayson and Greer, as well as Deanna, were beside themselves turning crimson as “Little Maggie” flew around her stage playing to the audience. Danny sat upright in his chair and recoiled into a catatonic state.  The nervous smile on his face, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, was the only sign that his heart had not given out.

Lee-Ann’s wide eyed expression was far more telling; she was about to cry; this family was the feather Deanna had brought to their cap? I could tell as her fingers lay softly against her lips she was calculating the statistical average of her daughter having a “normal” child one day.  What would the odds be?

I was in heaven.  It was academy award material; not “Little Maggie” breaking into theatrics but Danny and Lee-Ann attempting to enjoy and understand the display.  They'd spent years, primarily Lee-Ann as a well bred southerner, training their daughter for a bright and tatter-free future. In truth my dear friend lives in a private universe and acts not so far off from the actress now on the stage.

At the end of the day, finally seated with food before us, we all gave thanks. I sat at an unfamiliar table, with unfamiliar people, in an unfamiliar surrounding yet it was all very familiar.  It was a family; the good, the bad and the embarrassing. 

Dear Leo offered me another drink and when I graciously declined said raucously, “To hell with you then,” and added, “Liquor in…”

“Little Maggie”, feeling the effects of overeating farted loudly as the wine kept flowing and “the twins” boldly released bits and pieces of “family dirt” (as if I hadn’t seen enough) when their parents retired to the kitchen. I pulled up a front row seat and drank it all in; this was my new favorite cocktail.

On the way home I became introspective thinking of how I worry about presenting a good image or having to be “on” all the time. As my car rounded the bends of the hilly terrain I’d just left behind I would embrace the company of Danny and Lee-Ann’s extended family; they had added a new chapter to my life.  I giggled with each memory of the day, some far too personal to print.

Family units are complex.  We find fault and embarrassment within our individual members.  Brother torments brother, sister rivals sister and parents throw up their hands in defeat at times. Mothers and fathers constantly do or say something to embarrass us, especially during our teen years, and sometimes a loved one may run around pretending to be a Native American. Our focus becomes so positioned on the idea of the perfect unit we displace the outrageous behavior that causes those belly laughs, the indelible images we always remember. 

Who remembers the last serious conversation at the holiday table?  I remember Amber, our Cocker Spaniel, defecating on the floor in front of the guests on Christmas Eve at my parents’ house, the smell permeating the room. I remember my brother’s girlfriend once tickling my belly so hard that it that it caused me to fart loudly and unexpectedly during a dinner party and my friend Dave’s grandmother “throwing down” with her daughter- in- law in front of all of his guests.

The memories that make the moment, the warm and wonderful and yes, sometimes embarrassing antics of our family members make us laugh, comment the next day and think of those we love. The holidays just wouldn’t be the same, would they, if we were to remove the “daze”.

Fourth Down and Goal to Go

 Say it isn't so. They say that truth is stranger than fiction and perhaps it is, but when had I come so far from the hauntingly familiar essence of my being? Where was the world which I'd become a welcome part of?  Was it fate, a hologram of my past, which led me down a road less traveled which I'd written off eons ago? On one of the final nights of the year 2007, I gazed across a vast ocean of men with not a hope in sight of rescuing the existence I’d come to know.

          In the turbulent days of my youth I grew to realize there was something within me which seemed to evoke the words, "You are different".  On occasion I'd make a valiant but unsuccessful attempt to seek the same enjoyment as my family during Sunday afternoon football games which droned on endlessly over the television.   I seemed ever ashamed of my very "un-American" stand; I detested the sport and its symbolism: the emasculation of me.

As a member of a family with a direct link to The University of Notre Dame, perhaps one of the most hallowed of American football institutions, I was raised with such sayings as "Win one for The Gipper". Yes, when our mother wanted us to see a project through to fruition she would, like a cheerleader, bellow those words.  The passionate speech of the legendary Knute Rockne to the Notre Dame Football team admittedly stirred a minor sense of robustness within me.

Essentially I am the vegetarian who won't eat meat but will sustain himself on fish and never, ever pass up a gorgeous pair of Italian leather shoes to adorn my feet.  A pacifist, if someone slaps my cheek I turn the other; it's a learned behavior.  If they slap the other cheek I want to kick the shit out of them but know that's unacceptable.  The idea that adult men can be held in high esteem for bullying one another and paid millions of dollars to do so seems to me, at best, socially irresponsible, but what do I know?

In some way and on some unspoken level perhaps it's exciting to have such intimate contact with other men while being watched by millions of adoring fans.  I'm just exploring the notion that sports, primarily contact sports, may illicit a bit of a conundrum. Perhaps there is a representation, a slice of my own life, on a much larger scale that I simply never understood or accepted. True I felt an overwhelming sense of excitement during the games but it was vastly different from the rush of adrenaline which pulsed through everyone else's veins.

It was inconceivable that I was aroused, a shameful embarrassment, while watching these men touch one another. The feelings pointed to adjectives such as "abnormal" or "deviant", ones I cared not to acknowledge, at least with regard to me. The very terms "wide receiver" and "tight end"; who thought of such titles? In truth any contact sport, on multiple levels, can be regarded as sensuous, even erotic at times.

"Chip," mother would say, "Just watch, it's exciting. It's what little boys dream of doing." Curiously, when I announced my homosexuality she found the idea of two men touching one another, let alone patting each other on the ass, revolting. I wondered, "At exactly what point does manly behavior imitate intimacy?"

I would respond with questions more appropriately suited to my nature such as, “What does everyone want for dessert tonight?" or “I’m going to either make a rib roast or pork chops. Any ideas for a side dish?"  Football did not represent what this little boy dreamed of.  It became a symbol of society's definition of "true" masculinity and I found the definition contemptible.

Tonight, a blistering cold evening with a razor sharp wind that shaved my face with its' numbness would prove to be insightful. When combined with several close friends and of course my boyfriend, Rob, Provincetown is a lively location to usher in the New Year. Painstakingly before making the pilgrimage, my wardrobe must be selected so there is no time wasted in getting to dinner and heading out for the evening.

From the closet I pull a rich burgundy silk chemise by Dolce and Gabbana; it catches my fancy.  True, my choice is frightfully expensive but its capacity to drape lovingly along the shoulders I have spent years trying to broaden justifies the cost. To the naked eye my choice bears no deeper meaning other than it is simply a shirt; to a Gay man such as me it is heaven on earth.

All the while in the car, traveling the straightforward yet endless journey to Cape Cod, I listen attentively to Diana Ross.  I had been given "The Supremes Ultimate Collection" CDs for Christmas and paid careful attention to every note their voices tolled.  In my mind I visualized the elaborate gowns and adoring fans clamoring for a tiny piece of the ladies’ attention. As I drove I held my right arm outward as Diana, the ultimate diva, would and snapped my thumb and forefinger ever so "Supremely" to the melody.

At last I arrived.  My friends were gathered, sipping cocktails and reveling in laughter. After dinner we decide to head out to "Wave Bar, with its tremendous screen at the entry and multiple smaller screens surrounding the space.   Inside "Wave Bar" there is a formidable pulse; people come alive to dance music videos or clips from campy, cult movies such as "Mommie Dearest" or “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes”.  In common times, Whitney, Cher and Madonna play to a crowd of men and women who consider the iconic figures more important than say, The Empire State Building, which after one visit has limited appeal.

Entering the arena a fictitious rabble rousing echoes inside my head. The low slung baritone voices of the crowd of men and women chant an exceedingly masculine, "Woo, woo, woo,” not for one of the goddesses who generally adorn the screen but for The New England Patriots.  Tom Brady, the 6’4” quarterback, sweaty and in all his masculine glory, stands facing the camera with the tell tale black lines of sport beneath his prowling eyes.  There, upon the king sized screen, he epitomized the newly found role of "Diva extraordinaire".

My friends and I are miniscule pieces of an overcrowded puzzle with an important piece missing. Nowhere in sight is anything identifiable. Neither a D&G tee shirt nor Prada loafer nor anything Versace is evident; if they are they elude me.  Hugo Boss and Tom Ford must be on vacation.   I make my way to the upper platform where someone of my stature, a mere 5'7" can gain a better vantage point.  I look quizzically over the crowd.  Still nothing is familiar.

Along the vista I see waves of men with beer bottles in hand and Old Navy and American Eagle tops and sweatshirts on their backs; so too are the women.   Baseball caps top the waves of men like whitecaps top the waves of the sea. Can it be?  Why yes, off on the horizon is a splash of Abercrombie as it should be, on the body of a man who, like me, is searching the testosterone galaxy for a much loved symbol of his fashion sense. I was in the midst of a parallel universe, one with no rhyme or reason. When had it become suitable for gay men to cheer on the NFL?  When had I fallen backward landing once again on the outside of what was the norm?

Amid the surreal picture I ponder a wistful thought and one I know the NFL and society would scorn. Still I can't resist asking Jodi, one of my compadres, the question burning within me. Prepared for a poignant query about the nail biting quarter of the game which could leave the Patriots undefeated for a full season he leans in to listen.

“Who do I write to about the team’s uniforms? Don’t you think the game would be more interesting if they wore Versace?”

The recoiling of his body answered the question without a word being spoken.  My question, though viable to me, was unappreciated and met with great disdain.  Apparently I had sullied the game and all that is sacred which goes along with it. I shut out the bawdiness and retreated within my head to hear "The Supremes" sing, "Falling in and out of Love" while sheepishly snapping my fingers to the beat within me.

The clock is counting down to the close.  Joy is palpable, permeating the room as The Patriots are about to take their place as superstars.  “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one; the Patriots are undefeated for one solid season!” They are declared the winners and history has been made. “Woo, woo, woo,” the crowd sings out in unison with hands clapping and fists pounding toward the heavens in joy. One soulful spectator shouts, “Now get those boys to the showers and keep the cameras rolling!” At last rational behavior had returned.

The celebration in the room is intoxicating.  On looking back over the evening I too, at times, felt the shock of electricity as Tom Brady got into position, caught the hike and threw the ball far and wide while rocketing his team to glory.  For a few shining moments I understood the passion and the glory of the game. Without any utterance of the like could it be possible that I, Keith, the sissy boy from my childhood actually enjoyed watching the game with my peers?

Without warning, upon the screen before us was a video, a compilation of Cher, Madonna and Whitney singing in unison their most prized musical hits. Fantasy hairstyles, theatrical makeup, decidedly and intricately choreographed moves swept over the crowd.  Once again,thankfully, came the shrill cries of glee for our beloved divas; thank you God. These men, who had dressed as they should for an evening with the Patriots, now flounced back to where nature had intended. Perhaps you can uniform Gay men in fleece but thankfully you cannot take the fleece out of them.

Fate knocked not a moment too soon. Through the entry a Prada Pea coat came.  Under it pair of ‘Seven for all Mankind’ jeans and a ‘Boss Orange’ tightly fitted sweater caressed a svelte body.  My quarterback had arrived.  He threw the ball of couture and I skillfully caught it.  I pinched myself to ensure I was not dreaming, that I truly existed in the parallel universe of this night. 

It was the fourth quarter and the evening was almost at its’ close.  I had to score a goal.  The clock was running down, “Ten, nine, eight….” This one hadn’t been in the playbook I’d seen all my life; "gay boys" didn't sit around and watch football, did they? Time was of the essence as I intercepted the pass thrown by the Old Navy quarterback.  To my amazement I was successful and scored a goal. “Woo, woo, woo,” my parents would be proud.

Days later, Adario, a long time client and young Gay man of twenty, fresh and full of forthright opinions about life, surprised me with his youthful insight.  Having played high school football throughout his entire adolescence he shared disdain, not for the sport but the single-minded illusion which comes with it.

“They (fans, parents, players) have only one voice; it's a one sided ideal,” he said, “Football equals masculinity and masculinity equals football. It's fucking bullshit.” 

With the help of my young friend I had come to terms with an old wound.  You can wear Dolce and Gabbana, be a fan of couture or bake brownies on a Sunday afternoon while the rest watch the game. Anyone can be an avid sports even a fan of, dare I say it, football. There is a voice, whether masculine or effeminate, booming or soft, within and it can be heard.

Most importantly, after years of feeling on the outside of that which is expected, I surprised myself in learning I'd misjudged a truth.  It wasn't the reflection of the sport I found contemptible, it was the reflection of me, my own reflection as seen through the society I'd grown up in.  I chose not to accept who I was because of the fear of rejection from those around me. Sadly, at the time, that fear included my family; thankfully that did not come to pass.  My own feelings of self imposed exile were hiked to me long ago and I froze, unable to pass the ball. 

Couldn’t December 29th have come when I was a much younger man?  Unknowingly, when I looked across the vast sea of men and women indulging themselves in sport, I saw what lay deep beneath them.  I saw human beings, doctors, lawyers, waiters, waitresses, accountants, realtors, teachers, car salesmen and many others, including myself, in one room, in one town with one common denominator. This is what Keith, as a little boy, dreamed of.

There was no shame, no emasculation. There was a lot of testosterone, which may or may not have been imported, but we were all Gay.  One minute the Patriots and of course Tom Brady, had all eyes on them, the next minute poor Whitney did. It was quite the balance of conformity and non-conformity. Of course the odds of me sitting before a television and watching a football game are slight; it still opens wounds.

Neither tight end nor wide receiver nor even quarterback hold any interest for me.  The position I now play is that of defensive end to those of us who were exiled by the incongruous standards of society.  How good it feels to get a pat on the ass like the “real” men do after a good play. At last I'd "Won one for the Gipper" and all the while choreographed a "Supremes" song, like the man I have always been, within my head.

How Much is that Doggy in the Window?

On May 22, 2008 two fathers crossed crystal skies on very different flights. It's funny how life leads us down familiar roads to new lessons.  Even when we think the lesson has been learned somehow our knowledge base is expanded teaching us just a little bit more.
The capacity to love rears itself in many ways, shapes and forms.  Hopefully it begins the moment a mother and father cradle you in their arms.  The first burst of a baby's cry enamors us.  Though that cry may sometimes wear thin love overides. Love, ever so powerful, finds it's way to our doorstep. It knocks and is welcomed.  Life challenges us. Life stares us down and wounds us. Through it all the ever present capacity to love soothes even the most wrenching infliction and heals the heart.
 Parenting comes in multiple forms.  The traditional role of the parent is to nurture tiny bits of DNA that cluster together and grow to be miniature replications of us.  For some that is an easy task, for others it is far more challenging.  For me there was little choice.  Gay men were not readily looked upon to be biological or even adoptive fathers; thankfully that has changed.
The best possible scenario for parenting was through my pets, primarily dogs.  I was able to expose a loving side and fulfill a burning desire to nurture.  Parenting extracted all the lessons taught over the course of my life. The greatest of all was to be selfless. Recently I learned just how selfless love can be. 
I cared for her as anyone would their child. We spent our final days together sharing far more than we had in the years during our relationship. There were battles, wars of will and I usually won. Now it had become a chore for her to find the strength to carry on.  As I looked into her eyes, dark reflective pools of a life well lived now speckled with age, I cradled her in my arms. Fear would no longer be hers as she rounded the bend to the completion of life.
Like a small round tuft of mink her head slid against the strength of my thigh. She was seeking the tenderness of a fatherly hand. On bended knee I crouched to the floor and leant a protective nook for her to rest the weary body that had once run ambitiously through life. She looked to me as if to say, "Help me daddy".
"Don't worry little girl. I'll never let anything bad happen to you, I promise." Her eyes glazed over as she  looked to me trustingly. A tear found it's way down my cheek. "Yes, I promise."
How can it be that a love so pure, so gentle, can supercede all else? Against my body she would position herself, quietly breathing in and out.  The tranquility of her breath resembled that of a contented lover, a trustworthy companion.  How can it be that a life such as hers could have touched mine so deeply?  Clutching my bed pillow I remembered a time when I'd first known the joys a pet could bring.
As a little boy I loved to read. The shelves above my desk were filled with a plethera of books in numerous shapes and sizes. The heroes and heroines were embodied in whimsical forms: geese, cats, mice and little boys and girls.  My favorite was a small pocket sized book named "Spot the Pocket Puppy". 
With it came a tiny blue gingham stuffed animal who represented the namesake of the story and soon became my closest friend.  It was love at first sight.  "Spot" went everywhere with me, the grocery store, my grandparent's house and even on long walks, stopping along the roadside to "do his business".  Of course the action was simply a figment of my vivid, overactive imagination.
"Please mommy, pleeeease, can I have a real puppy?"
"You're not going to take care of it and I'll be left cleaning it and feeding it."
I threw a tantrum inwardly. Slinking off with Spot I cried.  My older brother Randy, in a fit of annoyance with me, once ripped Spot from my hand and threw him into the fireplace.  Crying, I rescued my pocket puppy but not before his "coat" was soot stained and his side seam had burst. The problem with pocket puppies is they can't defend themselves. They depend on their owners to do it for them.
"Come on Chip, we're going to be late." My mother helped me into my coat and pullied the navy blue knit cap onto my downy head. "Where are we going?"  I'd just settled in with my Lincoln Logs and Matchbox cars for the duration of the afternoon. "Just come on."
We turned into the driveway of the tiny white ranch style home on the very busy street, with cars whooshing by. "Go on," she said, "Ring the bell." Timidly I pressed the silver button. A rotund man opened the door. From behind, a woman with jet black hair in a beehive hairdo presented me with a gift.  It was two days before Christmas and my wish had come true; my parents had gotten me a living, breathing, "run through the grass", puppy; my childhood was complete.
As the years passed there have been many pets who have touched my life: Holly, Archie, Ashley, Raisa, Kara, Amber, Ozzie and of course, Spruce. It was Spruce who touched my soul the deepest.
Admittedly Spruce and I got off to a rough start. In the early days when Robert and I first met, Spruce was his brother's dog.  Having a digestive disorder, she was thin as a rail and had "bathroom" issues.  The first time caring for her I came upon odor so pervasive I thought I would die. Whatever had erupted in my home left it's mark, wafting through the air while permeating the senses.  Down the hallway, down the stairs and into the foyer lay a trail of mud.  Upon closer examination I realized it wasn't mud at all, it was fecal matter.
That evening did not bode well for Spruce. She panted and raced over my cream colored carpet with soiled paws leaving permanent stains along the way. Thankfully the smell dissipated. I vowed never to let this animal near my home again.
"I'm going to take Spruce," Robert said. His brother, recently divorced, could no longer care for her. Since we'd met he'd spoken extensively of the Springer Spaniel puppy with the "head too large for her body". He'd shared a fondness for her beyond any other pet he'd known.  It was true, she bore a quality, a certain "je ne sais quoi" which set her apart from the rest. Her easy going nature and friendly demeanor drew people in.  Beneath the black and white markings of her glistening fur coat she loved unconditionally and with adoring eyes clung steadfastly to the man who'd taught her to "speak".
Admittedly I was leary. I wanted no part of loving something only to have it taken from me through the cruelty of life. My parents were battling terminal illnesses.  I'd loved and lost before.  My Cocker Spaniel, Amber. My partner of ten years, Dean. With the daunting challenge of caring for my mother and father I simply couldn't prepare myself for one more emotional entanglement.
Time marched on as our lives unfolded.  My parents eventually died and my grief, so overwhelming, suffocated my once robust life.  Robert and I, hoping to repair a crack in our foundation, kept house and kept Spruce. She was now our child.  Most of her habits receded like the quivering tide of the ocean as she learned to accept and trust our love.  Still, when she crept to the counter and snatched away a whole cooked turkey I wanted to build a dog house, exile her to it and occasionally send out  a morsel of bread and some water.
Like the crying baby she was the apple of her master's eye. He ensured she wanted for nothing. Long hikes through wooded trails, the sound of her flopping paws surging through the stream, "splish, splash, splash".  Grooming appointments and cushy fleur- de- lis printed beds, along with steak dinners and party hats on her birthday, kept Spruce in fine style. We even took her on excursions to Florida and she kept still for hours as we made the long trip along the Eastern Seaboard.
Robert and I ended our relationship and once again Spruce became the product of a divorce. She split her time with both of her dads understanding implicitly when she saw my car it was our "special" time together. "Come on little girl," I'd say as she leapt into the backseat of my car,"We're going now."
The hardest choice for Robert when deciding to leave Connecticut and find new horizons in Los Angeles was leaving his friends and family behind. Harder was leaving behind his "child".  We could visit him, she could not.  On the day before he departed he wept, clinging to his furry friend.
"I miss my dog," he said stroking her softly and kissing her snout, "I miss my pup-pup."
Over the nine months since he'd gone I'd become Spruce's new master.  We waged a war between one another in attempt to determine the alpha dog.  She used overt methods to gain attention. Peeing on the floor and pooping during my dinner caused me to stand upo and take notice.
Her devotion to Robert resonated throughout the house during those first weeks of seperation.  From room to room and window to window Spruce would run. She'd peek around each corner and sniff under every door.  She would pace, panting as though something of the utmost value had been taken from her; in a sense it had. Once, when Robert and I lived together, we were lying on the couch watching television.  Spruce, waking from a nap, could see only my silhouette since Robert was resting soundly behind me.  She bolted to the bedroom like the hunter she was, her nose working overtime as she sought her master.
After exhausting every possible inch of space she came to me looking forlorn. I pointed behind me. "Here he is."  Stepping up and leveraging herself against me she leaned in to his body, "Sniff, sniff, sniff". Spruce had  found happiness; her father was close at hand.
While my nephew Christopher slept soundly in his crib, his parents, Randy and Maria, sat speaking with me in the kitchen.  They'd traveled from their home in Florida to Connecticut to enjoy the resplendent colors of autumn in New England. We spoke for what seemed like hours when I noticed Spruce was missing. Searching the house I glanced into Christophers' room only to find her asleep at the foot of his crib.  She was protecting her little "cousin" from any harm that may come his way. Their tiny breaths moved in and out in unison. The two bonded quickly and became as thick as thieves.  If Christopher went to the door Spruce stood by his side.  If Christopher played on the floor Spruce played alongside him.  Long talks with her in his own language kept him entertained and she seemed, to the naked eye, to understand every word he spoke.
As the months passed, Spruce, now sixteen, began to slow dramatically.  Her daily routine had shifted from a protective awareness of my home to an aloof wandering. From room to room, like an Alzheimer's patient, she wold shuffle.  The frequency of her "accidents" increased while my patience began to wear thin.
The stress of wondering what would be waiting for me when I arived home from work or an evening of dinner with friends became consuming. "Check, please" became common terminology before frantically driving home to let her out. Hopefully I'd make it in time and avoid a urine soaked floor. It wasn't her fault. She was old. Secretly I prayed that when I'm too old to control my bladder no one will kick me to the curb. As I watched the frailty of my pet increase my mind became flooded with memories of my parents as the days preceding their deaths droned on.
I spoke to the Veterinarian and to Robert about the changes.  I spoke to anyone who would listen so a justified decision could be made about ending Spruce's life with dignity.  I spoke so much I couldn't hear myself think any longer.
 "She has Diabetes.  This is a good thing.  We can manage her urinary issues because we can control her intake of water."   The Vet's words seemed to make sense.  She'd been drinking excessively and that would lead to increased accidents. I knew it wasn't her fault. Poor little girl.
I had a lesson on giving insulin injections to Spruce and became a pro.  Everyday we'd wake, eat and she'd get the tiny vaccine placed beneath her skin. "Poke in, squirt, pull out". I was indeed a pro. Still, Spruce's life was waning.  Her mental capacity was drifting out to sea. She was floating from whitecap to whitecap as she stood, statuesque, staring blankly at the wall or into the wind. I often wondered what she thought of as she looked into the vast expanse of nothingness.
Each morning, without fail, the clock glared 5:30 a.m.. It was time to wake and let my child out before she had an accident either in her bed or down the hall. "Come on, little girl."  I'd rub her head and softly wake her so as not to startle her. She'd yawn and look into my eyes. Those two charcoal indicators appeared more and more distant everyday. I'd carefully lift her from her bed and ease her down the hall to the front door.
 At night we had our routine.  It was dinner, television and then bed.  Over the eight remaining weeks of her life an intense bond and responsibility to "my girl" took over.  I went to the bathroom, she'd lay beside me.  I'd shower, she'd lay at the foot of the tub. I'd dress, she stand rubbing against my leg making absoutely certain her dad was still there.  She went to bed, I'd lie beside her caressing the now skeletal body that had once housed a gorgeous specimen of Spaniel heritage. The routine varied little.
When Spruce decided to stop eating I cooked.  I stood at the stove and scrambled eggs. I made her steak pizzaiola, chicken and rice or anything that might tempt her.  Eventually she began to eat but without the verve she once had.  Her appetite had now become extremely finicky.  This wasn't the same dog who'd come bounding at my breakfast and dinner plate sniffing to see what she could steal from it.
On May 22, 2008, as two parents crossed the clear blue skies on two seperate flights a common choice was made.  Their little girl, brave and loyal, trusted that her two fathers would make the right decision.  Had she the ability and I believe she did, she would have asked for mercy.  Though grueling, Spruce needed the courage and strength of love to end her life with both dignity and tranquility.
I was in Florida with my boyfriend Rob when the text came. Thank God he was there to calm the swell of the tide of sadness in my heart and my soul.  Robert had flown from California to care for Spruce.  "She's nothing more than a shell of the dog she once was. It's the right thing to do." He couldn't have been more accurate. My desire to protect her from suffering was justified. Pocket puppies aren't the only ones who depend on us to defend them. Robert and I together made the difficult decision to end her life.
He stayed with her ensuring those final days were comfortable and filled with unending love.  I'm sure she knew her favorite dad was there. The Veterinarian came to my home in order to spare Spruce any anxiety.  "It was very peaceful," Robert said, "She was lying in her bed and she just went to sleep." It was dignified which was a paramount factor for both of us.
Spruce's final days set off a firestorm of emotion within me. My voice had been crippled by her impending fate.  I sat, night after night, staring blankly at my computer unable to write.  My heart, which I thought was solid, was once again breaking.  In my state of sadness I focused on what was being lost rather than what had been gained.
I thought of all we'd done especially as she aged and how she effected change within me.  I'd thought I could never love again while facing the pain of loss. I thought of how I'd put aside any feelings of paternity because I never saw myself as a father and here I was just that.  I thought of how someone, anyone, even with four paws and drool, could love so completely and I wept. I'd been parenting her far longer than I knew.  Robert had parented her far longer than me. She taught a valuable lesson on the everlasting art of love and companionship. A little Spaniel, with floppy ears and a selfless nature, taught me to be selfless as well.
I look around and she's gone.  Seated at my table or on the chair in my den I miss the head that used to sniff out whatever I was eating and catch any crumb that may fall to the floor.  No longer does the black and white face gaze out the kitchen window as my car pulls in the driveway after a long day at work. Her tail no longer wags as she greeted me prancing like a ballerina.
 I miss the small friend who kept me company when all I felt was loneliness and fear. I miss people telling me what a beautiful dog I own; they only saw the outside. Even Ozzie, Rob's dog, who spent the weekends with her looks forlorn while curled in a ball on the chair. And oddly, I miss our battles with one another when she annoyed me to no end but brought a smile to my face just the same.
Opening a small drawer in the garage my heart skips a beat; "ba-bump".  In search of something insignificant I find something of great significance: the Coach collar she wore every day with her name tag attached.  "How much is that doggy in the window?"  Priceless. 

Spruce Brezosky, with her father Robert beside her, was given the ultimate gift of love on May 24, 2008 peacefully at home.  She lived a fantastic life filled with love for sixteen years. The choice to spare her any suffering was not taken lightly but made following lengthy discussions and deep, soul searched emotion. Though I was not with her physically as she left this life, my heart followed her during her journey. She had become, afterall, my little girl~~ Keith 

You can have your Cupcake and eat it too...

I have three major weaknesses: homemade chocolate chip cookies, chocolate cupcakes with chocolate butter cream frosting and getting into situations which leave me befuddled. The latter bring me to my knees.  Of course there are other weaknesses that bring me to my knees but we will let those rest.

On what could be described as any bland day, I received an email from my fellow “Pecster” Shawn announcing the performance of the “Connecticut Gay Men’s Chorus”. My penchant for new experiences was at an all time high and I rapidly responded, “yes”.  Admittedly I was a self proclaimed “chorus virgin” but a night of fun and frolic with my troop of friends was always something to look forward to.

One thing I’d not planned on was being overwhelmingly busy the week prior with dinner commitments and business seminars everyday.  By the time the weekend arrived I was longing for my blanket and a good nights’ sleep.  To top things off it was the weekend in April when we "leap forward" so in addition to being exhausted I would lose one hour of sleep.  As usual the world seemed to be turning not in my favor.

    Plans were cast and the night began with dinner at Café Adulis, an Eritrean and Mediterranean restaurant in New Haven.  New horizons were abounding for me on multiple levels. I’d often wanted to test the food at Adulis but never found my way there while in my relationship with Robert.

 The space was brilliant. With exposed brick walls and tables packed upon one another the crowd could easily mingle. There was a bar packed with patrons drinking and enjoying appetizers and an outdoor courtyard for summer dining.  The food was intricate with its piquant flavors, mint, lime, tomato, and a multitude of earthy spices bursting with every bite. 

At last it was time for the concert.  Having never been to one of the Gay Men’s Chorus performances I had no clue as to what to expect.  In my mind I envisioned multiple drag shows and extraordinarily effeminate men being sharp witted on the stage.  I also surmised it would be “the place” to be seen.  I wondered, “Should I pop a pill for my anxiety before leaving the house?”  No, that would make me all the more tired.

The cast was a mixed bag. Many were stocky, some were well into their sixties and over while others were exactly what I expected.  I immediately took a liking to one cast member in particular.  There was a segment where three guys came out as construction workers and strip down to their jock straps while carrying their individual “tools”.  The beefy boy I was enamored with moved as he should, with sex appeal that was palpable. 

Once the lights dimmed I knew my bed just one step closer.  The show was amusing; there were jokes about the current Bush administration and a tribute to the men and women of the military, primarily the veterans of World War II.  When all was said and done the lights went on, the audience applauded ferociously and we made our way to the lobby and outdoors.

My group was beginning to roll and wanted to head out to some local clubs.  Without wanting to seem like a bore and unadventursome, I made my way to Tommy and said goodnight.

“I’m afraid I have to leave.  I have somewhere else to go.” It wasn’t a lie since I was already late for an appointment with my bed.

  Like the game “telephone”, by the time I said goodbye to the last of the group, my story had evolved into me being on my way to hook up with someone for the night. It was a conundrum; do I come clean and fess up or act the stud and play the part? I acted the stud; if they only knew the truth.

On the way to my car there was a passionate romance brewing.  As I approached Starbucks, there before me in the lighted case was a glorious sight; a luscious chocolate cupcake topped with chocolate frosting.  I had found my date.  Paired with a tall “Tazo Chai latte” I was in heaven.

Two days later, at the gym, I ran into J-la.  He was all about the questions.

“Did you go home or did you really have a date?”

“I picked up a little cupcake and went back to my house.” It wasn't a lie afterall.

“Get out! Really, you did?”  His voice went up with excitement.

“I swear.”  My creative mind was beginning a surge; maybe I would go the distance just for some great writing material and J-la is a live wire.

 “Chocolate, if you catch my drift.  Delicious.”   Clearly I was telling the truth; so what if he thought I’d picked up a hot African American guy?

“Wow, that’s great!” Taking his hand he high- fived me.

As I made my way home from the gym I thought about my passion for sweets and the conundrum of my life.  On one hand I long to be a stud, on the other I am a home body.  Dessert has always been a thorn in my side. I want the abs of a model but not at the risk of never tasting a cookie or cupcake again; the thought leaves me in a state of sugar sadness.

More than anything I found another puzzle fascinating.  This wasn’t the first time I’d been completely honest and misinterpreted. When someone wants to hear a better story there is ability for us to interpret it within our own terms.  On occasion I have actually fabricated the elements of my life in order to see if I am more believable. 

Once I told my friend Jimmy I’d been home, sitting alone watching television on a Saturday night.

“Come on, this is me you’re talking to remember?”  His tone was fraught with disbelief.

“I’m serious, that’s what I did.”

“Ok, whatever.”  I had to go the distance to satisfy him.

“I didn’t want you to think I was a pig.  Yes, I went out to the bar and picked up a guy.  Are you happy?”  I was lying through my teeth.  “His name is Rich and he was hot, so hot we did it three times.”

“I knew it.”  His appetite was satiated.

I can’t quite figure out why the larger the lie the better the perception.  Was I guilty of wanting everyone to think I was having a better time than I actually was?  What would have been so bad about simply telling everyone I was exhausted and needed to go home for a rest?

Here’s the deal.  Would the “old Keith”, by having told the truth, rise to the surface and feel less than adequate?  By telling the truth, with its perception, I achieved more than I’d hoped for.  I got exactly what I wanted; a laugh, the appearance of being a stud and even better, a chapter. I scored all around and learned a great lesson: always tell the truth for you can have your cupcake and eat it too.

The Portrait

 I wonder if we all recognize that within us is an artist.  We are, in our own way, Van Gogh with his self portrait. Beneath our flesh is Monet with the beauty of his gardens and Picasso with his love of the abstract; the list is endless. With every tale told our verbal hand takes hold of a paint brush, strokes through the wide ranging palette of colorful adjectives and creates a portrait of those we have known. 

There is no denying the portrait we paint when love enters; the colors are vivid, bursting onto the scene, washing life with a vibrant hue.  There are wild, wide, blissful strokes of color as we tell our friends of the man or woman who has brought such happiness to our life.  I remember in the early hours of love describing him with soft, beautiful hues to my friends.  The words flowed from me as never before with peace and tranquility, tinged with electricity; the portrait was soothing, warm and secure, with an undercurrent of fire. I painted him as the most beautiful I’d seen, a soft fawn color, so perfect the image stood away from the canvas.

 If I were to have commissioned the portrait of my young love to any artist it would be Monet, my favorite, and would hang beside his collection at The Musee D’Orsay in Paris.  The work would be impressionist, soft and beautiful, comprised of roses and peonies, arching branches filled with hydrangea; strong yet delicately draping to the ground in search of secure footing. My choice of colors would be rose, blush and the subtlest of browns.  There would be the palest of blues, and the fire of ginger, like a sky at dusk, calm and tranquil, as the day ends and the evening, with its passion, begins.

To portray a scene in the first stages of a relationship is the most beautiful; there is an ethereal quality to our artwork.  It is memorable, a masterpiece. The excitement, with each stroke, leaves those attentive with an indelible image. The beauty is drenched in a torrid movement of the mind.  Over time, as the colors fade, we paint a new portrait, a new period in our lives, at times with a more aggressive palette, possibly bolder primary tones that mimic raging emotions, or in some cases a neutral, non-descript color, perhaps beige, that imitate the stagnancy the relationship has fallen into; either way the portrait changes. When the end of the relationship is on the horizon, it can be assured the colors become darker, more ominous, like the raging sea during a storm swelling with a vicious undertow that carries a body far from the security of the mainland, drowning it in the depth of its fury.

 The image is, once again, indelible. It is the final image that is best remembered.  When we leave a partner or friend, more often than not, we paint the final portrait.  The once beautiful colors become haggard. The still life quality is now askew with a more wild technique, lashing out at the injustice, lacking the continuity once known.

It is in the final stages we must take care in the painting of our portrait.  As it hangs side by side amongst our other artwork in the gallery of the mind, the last portrait is that which we remember most.  The image can be abrasive to our soul and the souls of those around us.  We must take care, for if we decide to walk down the long corridor which encompasses our gallery of portraits for a second time, those dearest to us shall always remember the haggard image, the painful expression, the portrait we painted of our once loved one with hateful colors for the entire world to see.

 I attempt to keep the first image as my last. Though muted, the colors remain familiar, the feeling still evident; my canvas awash with sincerity.  My portraits are painted with respect for my subject.   If hurt is in my heart I paint it with fiery colors then wash over them to subdue and accept the pain. I express my emotions and release my frustrations with each stroke of the brush; it is a learning process.   If ever I should return to a relationship, whether an old love or an old friend, I want only the essence of my original portrait to be visible in the gallery of my memory.

The Pampered Touch

It would seem that in all my years of hairdressing, 29 to be exact, you'd have thought I’d seen everything.  When you think of the flamboyant husband who was arrested for cruising young men in public toilets, the wife who set fire to her husband’s car in their garage as retribution for his indiscretions only to learn that gasoline left in the can does in fact explode and finally the son who wed his father’s mistress’ daughter to annoy his mother, nothing compares to one incident so memorable it lives on in infamy. On a searing summer day a single act, so outrageous, permeated the mind and the entire world in which I work.

As a young boy growing up my father brought home a book of jokes.  One tickled my fancy and my friends and I would recount it time and again without ever tiring of it's absurdity. Withh each telling we’d fall down laughing as if we’d just heard it for the first time.  It went something like this:

Muza Daibu was walking through the marketplace when suddenly he farted loudly.  The entire market took notice and Muza, filled with shame, went into seclusion for a several months.  He emerged from his home and went to the market. As he stood in line to buy a rug he overheard a man ask the clerk, “Can you tell me what day it is?” The clerk replied, “Why yes, it is four months and three days since Muza Daibu farted in the marketplace!”

Without attempting to minimize the vast impact of any major historical event, my co-workers and I use but one day to record the years’ events.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Sure,” I reply,” It’s ten months and two days since the Perky Pawling event.”

Each of us knows the exact date Perky Pawling gave new meaning to the term “the shit hit the fan”.  If so inclined I could base an entire calendar, holidays, holy days, even the lunar calendar, on one notorious moment in time. Since then I can’t help but notice the subtle changes in Perky Pawling. Once a sophisticated and much pampered woman, Perky is nothing more than a throwback to a generation neither I nor my contemporaries shall ever see again.

Esther (Perky) Pawling is a woman of great wealth.  She graduated from college when only a handful of women had the gumption to further their education. As a child she was so driven and chock full of life which led her mother to nickname her “Perky”, a name that has followed her for generations. 

Perky’s upbringing included several non negotiable items: to further her education and become a Wellesley graduate, to become the wife of a successful man and to play Mah Jong at the Country Club every Tuesday afternoon. Toss in a 2.6 children and a lavish second home in Pebble Beach and there you have it, the pampered touch.  Should it surprise any of us that Perky, seated at the Steinway, can rival even the most accomplished pianist? Jack Pawling insisted and assured there be nothing but the best for his wife.  

Perky’s fingers are perversely long and slender; if possible they could be described as anorexic. Though well manicured they no longer lusciously support the four carat diamond eternity ring Jack bought her for their twentieth wedding anniversary which is simply engraved, “To my pampered Perky”. Her being is rather emaciated now with her shoulder blades visible beneath  tiny turtleneck sweaters.Her hip bones protrude from the impeccably pressed slacks she buys by the dozen from Nordstrom.  If you touch her too hard it could leave an imprint which would take years to fill out. In days gone by she cut quite the figure in Chanel then moved to St. John Knits but now, since Jack died, her days aren’t worth the effort of fussing quite so much.

Of course over the years there has been some cosmetic work done though she claims to have been involved in a car accident while wintering in Pebble Beach. With her sing-song voice and a bit of an “upper crust” drawl she told the story time and again.

“It was an unthinkable accident.  Three migrant workers in a pickup truck came bolting through a red light and why, they simply plowed into Jack and me. (Hand held against cheek) When I awoke the next day the doctor told me my face had been so injured he needed to perform immediate plastic surgery to repair it.  (Hand held against side of head) I was unrecognizable, simply unrecognizable. (Hand held against heart) Thank God Jack was spared the need for surgery.”

“Yes,” I remarked inwardly, “thank God.”  It was fascinating that she only required sutures along the hairline by her ears and both arches of her eyebrows. Yes indeed, thank God Jack was spared any surgery.

“Why Perky it’s amazing the doctor was able to salvage your face. In fact he made you look ten years younger. You should have gotten hit five years ago.”

“Yes,” she said, her voice doubting the genuine nature of my concern, “I suppose I should have.”

At any rate I can’t help but think that as we age there is an unyielding quest for the fountain of youth.  But exactly how far back would a person venture to go?  Personally I would be elated to return to my early thirties but any farther than that, well, no way.  Perky, her lips now slightly askew from a collagen injection gone awry, had a burning desire to return to her glory days.  Much to our sadness she has gone farther back than that.

After Jack died from an untimely stroke, the family called a meeting and determined it would be in Perky’s best interest to have a live in companion, someone to oversee her daily activities and ensure she was dressed and fed properly. She’d led a luxurious life and wasn’t accustomed to making major decisions; Jack always had someone make those choices for her.

“I’d rather die than have her live with me,” she condescendingly said as she pointed to the large woman seated in the lobby waiting for her.  "I’m sure she thinks Saks are something you carry your trash out in.” Perky's voice travelled and she made no attempt to use a hushed tone.

“Now Perky, for heaven’s sake don’t be so cranky.  She’ll probably turn out to be a blessing.”  I caught a glimpse of the rotund woman with the flaming red hair clustered high on her head in a banana comb as she picked remnants of her breakfast from beneath her nails. I’d love to be a fly on the wall in the Pawling house.

As the days wore on Perky travelled off in her mind.  Her children  "suggested” she no longer make the trip to Pebble Beach and the house went on the market; she was outraged.

“What do they think?  I’m a 70 year old woman.  I’m not going to take a ride from a stranger or walk off into the ocean.”  In fact she was approaching 86; it wasn’t a stretch to do the math.  If she was 70 her son would have been born when she was 15 and the Admissions Board at Wellesley would have frowned upon such an “indiscretion”.

“Why the ladies at The Lodge simply won’t know what happened to me,” she said indicating the collapse of the entire social scene of her precious and venerable club.

Her once lustrous mind was now unexciting. She’d become forgetful as of late and her children, perhaps overly protective, were sure she’d wander off and never be heard from again.  I couldn’t help but notice she repeated herself now and again and heard only every other word when spoken to. Her daughter confided in me that the doctor ordered she wear two hearing aids but she refused when out in public. Eventually the Pebble Beach home was sold to a Hedge Fund executive and Perky was now a full time Connecticut resident.

It was rumored she’d entertained Rock Hudson and Doris Day on several occasions in Pebble Beach and the Mediterranean styled house, though aging like it’s owner, was once featured in Architectural Digest for its’ impressive ocean views.

“He’ll probably turn my beautiful home into a gauche palazzo. What’s become of the world?”

“I don’t know,” I concurred, “No one seems to have any quality taste anymore.”

 August 15^th was a searing hot day. When I saw Perky, frail and wearing a jacket because she was now always chilly, rustle herself from the car I ran to the door to let her in. It was quite apparent that something was amiss. As she bolted past me the anorexic hand squeezed together the cheeks of her behind.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” her shrill voice said with urgency.  As she hurriedly made her way to the rear of the salon I noticed a murky trail dripping from her rear end.

“Oh my God, she’s shitting as she’s running.” I turned, a co-worker’s wide eyed look caught my eye. No words were spoken but a complete story was being told. From behind the closed door of the tiny bathroom we heard nothing short of an explosion. Perky was losing whatever she may have ingested earlier rapidly.  It was as though the gracious woman had reverted back to infancy. The fountain of youth was flowing from her slacks.

Only Perky could emerge from the bathroom and act with the utmost propriety as though nothing happened. You had to give her credit.  She sat in my chair before I had a chance to cover the seat and I noticed droplets of diarrhea leaking from her pant leg. She noticed it too and swiftly wiped it on the sleeve of her shirt.  I looked away before she saw me.

The stench permeated the salon.  Nina, my coworker rushed to close off the bathroom and spray the room with air freshener.  She scurried to me and whispered between clenched teeth away from Perky, who couldn’t have heard her anyway “It’s all over the bathroom.” I couldn’t understand a word she’d said.

“What,” I whispered from the corner of my mouth hoping we were being discreet, “I don’t understand.”

“She exploded all over the bathroom,” It was as if she were typing out the words so I could hear each letter; I caught every word and put my hand to my mouth. “Oh, shit.”

“Now you’ve got it,” Nina said shaking her head.

Perky wasn’t about to let a little thing like a gastrointestinal disorder interrupt her day.  There was a hairstyle to be had and a card game at the country club. Certainly she could make it home for a quick shower before meeting the ladies though lunch would be out of the question.  It was one thing to defecate throughout the hair salon but something like that could revoke her club membership or worse her place at the Mah Jong table!

Through it all I couldn’t help but feel Perky’s pain and humiliation.  Here was a stunning woman who had achieved all she’d wanted in life without ever having to worry about anything greater than the shade of polish her nails would be.  It took a team of plastic surgeons to keep the youthful image of the once flawless face alive, though now it was erring on the side of gaunt, her cheeks hollow and her skin clinging to her protruding cheekbones.

Perky had tempted fate and sought the fountain of youth when she felt she was losing her grip on the world as she knew it. It had been a world of privilege and prosperity where the husband was the bread winner and the wife stayed at home tending to household matters.

A college graduate, Perky was left to host snappy dinner parties for Jack’s clients and tasty luncheons for her friends. They made their way regularly to swanky Penthouse parties thrown by New York’s crème de la crème, once having met Andy Warhol and inviting him to spend time at Pebble Beach; she was nothing less than glamour at its’ finest.

In the solitude of her homes, as the children grew into their own right, she sat at the piano and played Bach, Brahms and Beethoven, being certain not to break a nail for fear there may be a call to a luncheon at one of her country clubs. On occasion the maid would catch her she’d sneaking a rumble of Joni Mitchell from her daughter’s song book and feeling quite decadent.   Thoroughly pampered, Perky had the life she’d dreamed of without an ounce of regret.

Now there is a slight bulge in the back of her not so perfectly pressed slacks.  When she sits in the chair for her weekly hair style the little turtleneck sweater slips up from her waist and the diaper, white and bunchy, protrudes slightly above the waistline.  The day her digestive tract exploded was the day the fountain of youth caught up to her.  She and her lady friends used the scalpel to remove decades from their physical appearance. They injected themselves turning back the clock so far that Perky apparently returned to her earliest days; the days of diapers.  Perky, in all her radiant glory, is now being 'Pampered' in a far different light and we love her perhaps all the more. 

Perky Pawling is a culmination of several illustrious women who have, over the years, visited the salon.  She is in no way any single living soul and any resemblance to any one person is, in fact, a mere coincidence.