Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

fighting to keep her that way. Her husband had petitioned to have her feeding tube removed, and fundamentalists everywhere were outraged, Governor Jeb Bush among them. When permission was finally granted, the faithful gathered around their sets for a protracted deathwatch, a sideshow that proved so popular that the network tried it again several days later with the pope. But an old man shuffling into oblivion, however cute he might be, lacked the sheer gladiatorial drama of a good plug-pulling.
    “Lenore would bring lunch to the Gospel Palms,” Ben explained, “and her and your mom would watch Fox-TV every afternoon. It was sorta their soap opera. Lenore would get so worked up she’d talk back to the set. She said that letting someone die like that was worse than abortion. Even if they want to die. Even if they requested it.”
    I could feel my face burning. “And how does she feel about slaughtering children for oil? Does that offend her Christian principles?”
    Ben was waiting indulgently for me to return to the war at home.
    “So all I have to do is sign something?”
    He nodded. “She had a lawyer draw it up. She asked me to be one of the witnesses. She wants you to sign before Irwin and Lenore get wise.”
    “This doesn’t mean…” I just couldn’t find the right way to put it. “I mean…she’ll be comfortable, won’t she?”
    Another nod. “They can make it that way.” He reached over and held my arm. “Nothing different will be happening, sweetie. Things will just…take their course naturally. She just doesn’t want the respirator.”
    “Gotcha.”
    “Are you okay?”
    I nodded. “I guess I should call her.”
    He shook his head. “I told her you’d do it. We’re gonna sign the papers on Thursday.”
    I raised my eyebrows. “You’re way ahead of me, aren’t you?”
    He leaned closer and kissed me on the cheek. “Just beside you.”
    I smiled at him. “This could get sticky, you know.”
    “You think?”
    “Well…they’ll put up a fight if they get wind of it. I’m sure of that.”
    “Maybe,” said Ben, “but there’s nothing they can do about it. Once your mom’s made her wishes known.”
    “I suppose.” I had a sudden, macabre image of Lenore brandishing her puppets at the Gospel Palms while Mama breathed her last natural breaths. I could hear those loathsome Little Witnesses accusing me, pointing their little felt arms at the sinner from Sodom-by-the-Bay as the righteous assembled at Mama’s bedside to sing hymns of devotion.
    “She must hate it,” I said, “that she has to turn to me.”
    “She doesn’t have to,” said Ben. “She wants to.”
    No, I thought, she has to. Everyone else has drunk the Kool-Aid.

12
    Camouflage
    O rlando’s oldest gay bar, the Full Moon Saloon, was a few blocks from our B&B down Orange Blossom Trail. The place had been a hunting lodge when I was a kid, but now it catered largely to bears—specifically the Bears of Central Florida—whose headquarters (and hindquarters) could be found there. On certain nights of the week patrons were encouraged to wear leather, latex, or uniforms. This particular night was a Wednesday, so men in camouflage could buy domestic beers for $2.25.
    In my youth, and many years thereafter, camouflage would have meant the jungle-green Vietnam variety, but most of these guys were decked out in the muted buffs and grays of the troops in Iraq. One of them, a solid-looking black bear nearing fifty, was sporting that new computer-generated camouflage on which random pixilated shapes have replaced the old swirly shrubbery patterns.
    “He might be real,” I said to Ben.
    “A real what?”
    “Soldier. I don’t think that pattern has hit the thrift shops yet.”
    Ben gave me a dubious look. “Why would he wear it here? I don’t think that outfit is much of a fantasy for people who have to wear it for real.”
    “I guess not.” I smiled at him, appreciating his practical wisdom. “I’ll get the drinks. What’ll you have?”
    Ben, as you know, is alarmingly moderate when it comes to substances, so “What’ll you have?” is always a challenge. “How ’bout a Lemon Drop?” he said.
    “Is that what our brave men are drinking now?”
    He goosed me. “You can skip the pansy-ass glass.”
    “Yes sir.” I gave him a smart salute. “No pansy-ass glass, sir.”
    I wriggled my way to the bar, where a chunky bartender in a camouflage tank top obliged by serving the cocktails in whiskey glasses rimmed