A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to My Sexual Orientation Read online

  This, however, made it difficult to discern when she really had to go out or whether we could safely ignore her.

  "I'm here, I'm here. Life goes on. Life continues. The dog will feel the sunlight on her hairy body.” I opened the door and let her out.

  "Where have you been? I've been calling you for ten minutes.” Mom wasn't in a good mood, and I didn't think I was about to help it much.

  "I counted three minutes, and I'm sorry.” I spoke in a tone of mock submissiveness. “I was far away in my room working, not right at the kitchen sink or in the next room sitting on a recliner. I'll hasten to comply much faster next time."

  She glared at me.

  "Is there anything else I can do for you? Move the house a little to the left?"

  The look on her face was the only response I was going to get. It was all I really needed.

  "I'll go outside and start pushing."

  The buzzing and whirring of an electric weed whipper caught my attention. Mable!

  Mable was a sixty-five-year-old divorced lady from England who lived next door. The woman had a heart of gold, but as she said about herself quite frequently, the “lights are on but nobody's home.” It was a good thing she had a sense of humor because I often played practical jokes on her when I wasn't driving her to the movie theatre to watch one of our “spooky movies” or to the mall so she could get a coffee at Kresge's. Maybe she didn't always understand all the movies we watched or the pranks I played on her, but she never held anything against me and we always had fun.

  One thing was for sure—I needed some fun right about now.

  * * * *

  I grabbed the portable phone before I left the house and entered in Mable's number. Just as it was about to connect, I turned it off. Oh, this was going to be devious!

  I walked out the back door and opened the gate to our driveway, careful that Kira didn't try and make a break for it. If I had to stay at home all these years, there was no way in hell she was getting out. She eyed me for a moment, but didn't bark.

  It's said that a dog will take after its owners. Kira was no exception, and she tended to take after me in the area of mischief. I think she knew what I was up to, so she wasn't going to express her dismay just yet. It was better to wait and see what happened.

  There was a hedgerow between our house and Mable's, with just enough room between the shrubs for me to slip through. She was out by the fence at the far end of the yard with her back to me. Several extension cords ran from the inside of the house, out the back door and along the ground to where she was now picking up the weeds she'd just cut. As she was putting them into a garbage bag, I ran over to the nearest cord and unplugged it but left it close enough to the other one that she would think it had just slipped out. No harm done.

  I moved back behind the bushes and ducked below them for cover. She might not be able to see me, but I could see her.

  Mable reached down for the weed whipper a moment later and pressed the button to start the motor. Nothing happened. She tried it a few times more to make sure she wasn't doing something wrong and then set it back down.

  She looked a bit confused but finally decided to investigate. Starting at her end, she methodically worked her way up the line until she found the break in the cords near me. Her brow was furrowed, and she mumbled something as she plugged the cords back together and tested them to make sure they stayed firm.

  I ran out and pulled them apart again as she was on her way back down to the end of the yard then watched as she picked up the machine.

  "Shit!” I heard the agitation in her voice as plain as in my mother's. Yep, she was getting worked up pretty quickly, and I watched as she again set the machine down on the ground—a little harder than the last time. She found the two cords barely sepa-rated and plugged them back together.

  I again ran out and unplugged them before she got to the end of the yard. She didn't bother setting the machine down nicely this time. She tossed it as if it was somehow the tool's fault for not having any power.

  "Son of a bitch. Damn cords...” She stared, really stared, at the two ends that refused to stay together.

  After testing to make sure there was enough slack in the line and that they weren't stretched, she decided on a different course of action. She stomped into the house, and I waited for several minutes for her to return. She did, finally, only with reinforcements.

  She carefully wrapped electrical tape around the two uncooperative ends then made several attempts to see if they would pull apart when she tugged on the line. They stayed together perfectly.

  It was a close call, but I managed to unwrap the cords just enough, pull them apart and then rewrap them before she got to the end of the yard. When she picked up the machine, all set to work whipping away, and nothing happened, it wasn't pretty. Mable didn't swear very often, but when she got started, she was like a sailor with Tourette syndrome.

  "Goddamn fucking cords! Son of a bitch! I'll glue those little fucking bastards together! Shit!"

  I had to fight like hell to not laugh out loud. God, I had to be a sick kid having this much fun at the expense of a sweet elderly woman. Damn if I didn't get a kick out of it, though.

  Mable practically flew up to the ends of the cords and unwrapped the tape and scratched her head in wonder as to how in the hell they came apart. I figured she'd suffered enough, so I stood up and pretended I'd just come from the house.

  "Hey, Mable,” I greeted her, all smiles. “You having some trouble?"

  "These fu—damn cords won't stay together.” She tried to watch her language around me. “Can't get a damn thing done back there!"

  "Did you try taping them together?” If there was anything sicker than what I had already done, it was the fact I could keep a straight face and look completely innocent when I had to.

  She held up the cords with the tape around them.

  "And they still got loose?"

  "Yeah, but I don't know how.” She was thor-oughly frustrated. “I wrapped the shit out of them."

  "Sounds to me like someone's playing games with you,” I teased and put my hands on my hips.

  "Could be, could be..."

  It suddenly dawned on her that I was smiling a little too widely and acting just a little too nonchalant about the whole matter. Plus, I'd practically just told her I'd done it.

  Her face dropped with realization. “You little asshole!"

  Well, there went the language.

  "I'm sure they'll stay together now.” I winked at her, and she shook her head. While she was debating what to say next, I moved my left hand from my hip to my back pocket and turned the portable phone on. A moment later, I hit the redial.

  "I'm sure they will, too."

  "Mable, your phone is ringing."

  "Oh!” She perked up and made a mad dash for her back door. Mable didn't get too many phone calls since she got divorced. Most of the time, it was either one of her three kids—two of them mainly when they needed money, the third was okay—her employer, me or a friend. Mable just loved company and talking, so she always ran when the phone rang.

  I moved to a position where I could see her through the back door, and just as she was about to pick the receiver up, I turned the phone off. She came back outside a few seconds later, a disappointed look on her face.

  "Who was it?” I asked innocently.

  "I got there too late. They hung up.” She looked completely dejected.

  God, I suddenly felt sorry for her. The poor woman was only trying to get some yardwork done, and I'd managed to put a damper on that. The only thing I could think to do to make it up to her was annoy her so thoroughly with something else that she'd completely forget the entire weed whipper incident.

  I was nothing if not logical, and since I'd already started taking her mind off things with the phone, I felt obligated to continue on with it.

  "I'm sure whoever it was will call you back,” I reassured her. “You're generally home at this time of night, so they probably figur
ed you were on the toilet or in the shower.” I pressed the redial button.

  "You think so?” Mable considered my logic.

  "Absolutely."

  The phone could be heard ringing again.

  "See? There you go."

  Mable ran for the door, and I once more hung up just as she was about to grab the receiver.

  "Shit!"

  She waited a few seconds more before coming outside, probably thinking that maybe they would call back one last time. When it didn't ring again, she returned, and she brought a broom out with her.

  This just wasn't her night, and I would have one hell of a story to tell at the dinner table.

  "They hung up again?” I asked.

  "I wish I knew who it was.” She shook her head. “I'd like to kick their ass for making me run like that!"

  "I hear ya,” I commiserated. “If somebody did that to me, I'd want to hurt them, too."

  Her phone began to ring, only this time it wasn't me. How the hell did I get her to run once more without giving myself away?

  "Uh, Mable? I think you better go answer that."

  "Fuck it! I've had it with answering those hang-up calls. It's probably just some prick pranking me."

  "No, I really think you should answer this one.” I reluctantly continued, “It's for real."

  I couldn't help but give it away at this point because it could have been an important call.

  "What do you mean ‘It's for real'?” Mable was definitely suspicious.

  "I'll see you later.” I turned around, completely forgetting I had the phone in my back pocket. There was just this sudden feeling that I should be getting along home that took hold of me.

  Mable didn't miss the phone in my back pocket. It took a moment for it to register, but then she realized what I'd done to her.

  "You little asshole!” She swung the broom at my ass and just barely missed. “I can't wait for you to go to California so I'll have some peace and quiet!"

  I had to think of something quick to get her mind off beating the hell out of me.

  "Your phone is still ringing!” I ran for my yard.

  "Oooh!” She turned quickly and made one last mad dash inside. I waited just long enough to see if she made it. “Son-of-a-bitch!"

  Apparently, she didn't.

  "Things happen for a reason,” I muttered and wondered what was up with this California thing.

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  3

  I mentioned some time back that there were two important events that took place during the summer before my sophomore year of college. The first was getting the car. The second occurred after Mable let that hint slip in her rage. If it hadn't been for her, I never would have known I was under close observation to determine if I was capable of behaving well enough to accompany my grandmother to California for six days for her brother's fiftieth wedding anniversary.

  Apparently, Grandma's alcoholic gentleman friend Roberto disliked traveling anywhere far beyond his own yard and absolutely refused to go to “the Big C” with her. After a month of trying to convince him and getting nowhere, she became determined that someone else would get the pleasure of being her escort. Roberto would just have to drink by himself for awhile.

  None of this bothered me in the least. I couldn't care less who I was going with as long as I got to go. Here was that much-needed vacation I had been searching for, and I think it was safe to say that California was far enough away. It was almost too good to be true!

  Basking in the hot California sun and surrounded by voluptuous babes rubbing suntan lotion all over my body was a fantasy that every straight man dared to dream. What I didn't have in physique to thrill them I would make up for in character. I'd always wanted an opportunity to find love and had secretly been praying for it, along with asking to pass my exams, and He'd finally answered. All those times people warned about being careful what one asked for—how could this possibly go wrong?

  * * * *

  Work gave me the time off I needed. I knew that wouldn't be a problem since asses—associates have such a high turnover rate. The day of departure finally arrived, and Grandma and I were driven to the airport in the early afternoon. I loved how the time worked. We would take off at one p.m. in Michigan and arrive about two or two-thirty p.m. in California. This meant we only lost about an hour.

  One of Grandma's other brothers and his wife were going to pick us up, and we would all drive directly to the party. I have to say I wasn't really looking forward to this anniversary thing. I just wanted to be dropped off at the beach and picked up afterwards.

  Grandma and I had never had the pleasure of traveling with each other before. Even when I was younger, I rarely spent a night at her place, and I understood why. Her first husband was a violent alcoholic who used to beat her and burn her clothes in the incinerator. Her second husband was also an abusive alcoholic, but more of a verbal one. It made spending time with her very difficult, but it wasn't like we didn't have a bond. After all, she gave me some really cool Christmas and birthday gifts and money for graduation and other holidays or festivities. I just wanted something on a more emotional level, with mutual trust and respect, which she was either unable or unwilling to work on with me.

  Still, it didn't mean we couldn't have fun. For instance, Grandma took the lead and headed for the bar the moment we checked our luggage in.

  "Let's get a drink.” She spoke with some urgency.

  That was all fine and dandy for her, but I wasn't of legal drinking age yet. While that never bothered or stopped me up at school, I couldn't exactly get away with it in public. Then, too, it occurred to me that people were supposed to do things on vacation they didn't normally do when they were at home.

  Why was she drinking, then? Maybe the one drink would sooth Grandma's nerves, just on the off-chance she also didn't like flying.

  After the third drink, however, I was getting the impression Grandma was only going to be happy after she deadened her nerves as opposed to merely soothing them. I, on the other hand, was on a caffeine high.

  By the time the plane was ready to taxi down the runway, Grandma had this glazed look in her eyes and a half-cockeyed smile on her face. The only real tip-off that she was pleasantly on her way to a drunken stupor was the little bit of drool slowly starting to drip from the corner of her mouth. Well, there was also the open little bottles—vodka in her left hand and peach schnapps in the right.

  For as much she liked to drink, she still looked wonderful on the outside. I only hoped I had her genetic heritage in my liver.

  It never ceases to amaze me how much taking off in an airplane feels as close to an orgasm as one can get without actually having one. I'm not embarrassed about it because it happens to be a shared experience. Some people like to be drunk when it happens, others have panic attacks and yet others just sit back and enjoy the ride. All in all, I guess it's very much like having sex, though slightly more expensive unless you're paying for a high-priced hooker. I've gotten the same thrill off a Ferris wheel at a carnival before and that was only seventy-five cents.

  I could never understand why comedians always tell stories about how horrible their flights to wherever they were going were. At least they got to travel first class! I never did yet. I also never got to sit next to some overweight person who spilled over into my seat, never sat behind someone who insisted on remaining reclined the entire trip and never sat in front of some little brat who kicked my seat. I have, however, been gypped out of my bag of peanuts and been overlooked by the stewardess serving a meal.

  Before when I've flown, I've been alone. Not this time. No, I was with Mary Poppins and her other traveling companion, Jack Daniels. At least she was quiet for the trip and somewhat lucid for the landing.

  We had barely stepped into the terminal when our welcoming party shouted out to us, “Hey, Hotdog!"

  "Oh, shit,” I mumbled. It was my Great-uncle Chester and his wife Virginia. This really was going to be an interesting ride to C
ovina.

  Uncle Chester always called Grandma “Hotdog” and the other members of the family by some other little pet name; but for some reason, he always had trouble remembering mine—my real name, that is. He also had a reputation for being a bigger pain-in-the-ass than I could ever aspire to be. I liked him well enough when he wasn't talking to me and enjoyed his jokes when I wasn't the butt of them, but I was going to be sharing closer quarters with him than I ever had before.

  His wife was fairly quiet, which was a nice contrast to her husband. Nobody really knew too much about her, though. Maybe I'd get an opportunity to start a conversation with her during the trip.

  Starting a conversation with Uncle Chester was never a problem. He reminded me of one those drips a faucet sometimes developed, the kind you can never turn off.

  "Chester!"

  Grandma set her bag down in front of me and ran over to him. Since I was blocking all the people still trying to exit the plane, I took it that I was to be her baggage boy for the moment instead of her grandson. I kept my temper in check and watched as she gave Uncle Chester a huge, tight hug and then a kiss. I wondered how he could stay standing and not get dizzy after smelling her breath. It still had to be at least 40-proof.

  Shortly after, Grandma greeted Aunt Virginia and gave her a quick peck on the cheek and a soft hug, hardly the greeting her brother had received. Aunt Virginia was apparently very fragile and had to be handled with care, as it appeared too-rapid inhalation and exhalation of air from her lungs might damage her irreparably.

  The three of them talked for a few minutes while I stood by and waited for them to finish. Grandma finally started looking around, presumably for her bag, and then saw me with it. It seemed for a moment she was going to ask me why I had her luggage and then remembered I was a relative who had just happened to fly out with her. Recognition is such a beautiful thing in life.

  "Chester, Virginia, you remember my...” Grand-ma looked confused for a moment, as if still trying to place me. “This is Marie and Donald's son."

  "Andy.” I extended my hand to Uncle Chester. “The grandson."