All
it took was a call to Lorne.
After hearing you out, Lorne made a call.
The person Lorne called, made a call of his own.
And they showed up.
Complete with makeup kits, swatches and a production team.
They tittered. They giggled. They posed.
They took over the bungalow you and your lover share.
They took over the look of your lover.
His look was dated.
How... how 90s!
He was pissed.
You reasoned that he'd get over it.
He'd even thank you for it.
Eventually.
So you fled to high ground, spending the week in Palm Springs, once more
taking advantage of Lorne's connections because you never would have been
able to afford this much exclusive happiness on your own.
You come back all refreshed, seaweed wrapped, acupunctured, and pedicured.
A new woman.
You just knew what those wonderful "Queer Eye Guys" did for your lover would
be, in a word, "fabboo".
Besides, wasn't it time he updated?
OhmyGod, I can't wait!
When you open the door, you are greeted by the smell of stale beer, cigarettes,
and feet.
The tasteful new decor has been overwhelmed by British football posters, horse racing
forms, and velvet tapestries of dogs playing poker.
The Sex Pistols bellow at you from the stereo while Manchester United push
and shove their way across the screen of your television as one of your bras
spins lazily overhead from the wobbling ceiling fan, which is now missing
all but one paddle.
Over the pizza box-violated couch now hangs a sporadically flashing beer
sign advertising Guiness and a dartboard big enough to use as a kitchen
table with a top-heavy naked girl painted on it.
Your lover slouches in a plaid recliner, it's prolapsed stuffing barely held
in check by duct tape.
Orange duct tape.
Eyes glued to the set, he's wearing nothing but frayed tighty whities and
a pair of piss green socks with holes in the toes. One hand has slid under
the elastic of those tighty whities beneath the bulge of the beginnings of
a blossoming pot belly, and is luxuriously scratching.
Stubble decorates his face, there's a bald spot with two strands of hair
half-heartedly pulled over it, and a pile of empties (blood and beer) surround
the chair, along with empty White Castle boxes, blood bags, girlie magazines, used tissues, a dribbly bottle of hand lotion, and cigar
butts.
Coughing your way through the blue haze, you scream, "What the hell is going
on here?"
He calmly gargles at you around a bloodstained mouthful of potato chips and cheese doodles, "'Ere luv, go
get us a beer, won't yer and give us a snog, eh?"
Numbly you pick your way into the kitchen, toenail clippings crunching underfoot.
There are greasy boxes of half-eaten fried chicken on the counter and empty
bean cans rolling around on the floor in a drifting haze of cigarette ashes.
The refrigerator is indescribable, the sink a nightmare of dirty dishes, cockroaches, and
floating butts in grey scummy water.
Flies circle the trashcan like bombers over Baghdad.
Omygod, was that a rat?
In the living room, over the shriek and yammer of the entertainment center,
your lover calls out, "Hey toots. C'mere an' pull me finger!" before giving
out a long juicy smoker's hack that ends with something damp hitting the wall.
You flee the kitchen, coming to a screeching halt at the sight of the bedroom,
the sheets smeared with brown stains, fermenting mounds of dirty socks and
underpants everywhere. The toilet in the hall bathroom is making ominous rumbling
noises while the shower drips non-stop behind a mildewed curtain.
He comes up behind you, puts his arms around your waist and gives you a wet,
sloppy kiss with his stubbly face after belching long and loud in your ear.
"Gotta stiffy, let's shag!" You struggle, screaming because his teeth are stained,
his breath smells like the wastebasket in a women's locker room on a hot day
during "that time of the month" and his armpits stink.
You break away, panting, and face him. He gives you a snaggletoothed half-demon
grin, "If that's how you want it, Baby!" and reaches for you again.
His nails are ragged and chewed... his roots are showing... and (Oh God!) he
just blew his nose on the floor...somebody's going to pay for this! Back in Palm
Springs, you saw the production tape Lorne sent you FedEx of the show... Where
are the bright colors, the stylish up-to-date haircut, the... the... "Eeeeeeeeeeee!
Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"
You knock yourself unconscious on the floor when you trip over a trail of
dirty, torn jeans and rotting sneakers.
A few hours later you wake up on the bed.
Your lover's looking down at you with a smug smile, chin out, thumbs defiantly
hooked in the front of his belt in a hipshot pose.
He's back the way he's always been, face smooth, hair bleached and slicked
back, dark red silk shirt over a black t-shirt like a second skin, nails enameled.
He's brushed his teeth.
He's back to his old, usual aftershave.
The place has been cleaned up.
The belly is gone.
So is the bald spot.
"Don't ever do that to me again, pet."
He sits down next to you.
You just lie there, realizing that both of you have crossed one too many
boundary lines.
"Don't ever do that to me again, William."
The both of you reach out toward each other; your warm hand held in his cool,
dry one.
You stay that way for a long time, the antique Victorian brass alarm clock
you gave him last year for Christmas last year steadily ticks in the background
as the shadows of the trees play across the closed drapes.
Finally you say, "I'm sorry."
He looks at you while sucking at his cheeks, blue eyes inscrutable as the
Siamese cat your mother had when you were little only because it matched the decor. Then he gives you a half
smile, "If what I look like means that much to you, pet I'll let my hair grow
out. All you had to do was ask."
"I'll help you take care of it."
"Fair enough."
And that's all it took.
