Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

punishing answer, Ben had taken care of things. “I think we both did,” he said.
    “Of course,” said the taller one, scolding his partner with a glance.
    “We were married at City Hall,” I told them, changing the subject.
    “That’s great,” said the taller one. “We couldn’t do that, of course, but…our pastor gave us a commitment ceremony.”
    I was surprised—and impressed—to hear that. “Around here, you mean?”
    “Yep. Tully Memorial Baptist.”
    “Well, I’ll be,” I said. Three days back in Central Florida and I was already sounding like Mammy Yokum.
    The shorter one sucked on the joint with a vengeance, making almost the same noise my mother made with her nebulizer. “We quit that congregation.”
    “Why?” asked Ben.
    “Well, the pastor started preaching about how all religions are the same and how (ssss) they’re all just guidelines for goodness and the Buddhists are just as good as we are and shit like that. Well, call me old-fashioned, but (ssss) when I accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my personal savior (ssss) I didn’t sign up for no Buddhism.” He handed the joint to the taller one, then turned back to us. “I mean, can you imagine such a thing?”
    I didn’t dare catch Ben’s eye for fear of uncontrollable smirking. “Oh, well,” he said, struggling for something to say, “I can see how…so it was sort of…a question of—”
    He was floundering pitifully, so I helped in my usual way—by interrupting. “I think I see what you mean,” I said to the shorter one. “If you join a spiritual discipline…whatever it is…you expect to be given the purest version of it.”
    “Thank you,” said the shorter one. “I told that pastor we wanted all Jesus all the time or he could just keep his damn collection plate. We’d rather spend it on shoes.”
    This time he’d meant to be funny, so Ben and I laughed, grateful for the release.
    “He really did say that,” said the taller one, terribly proud of his tell-it-like-it-is partner.
    “Do y’all live around here?” I asked.
    “Not far,” said the taller one. “Winter Garden. We’ve got a condo there.”
    The shorter one nodded. “We’re moving to Naples, though, just as soon as we’ve got the cash.”
    “Lucky you,” said Ben. “Italy’s wonderful.”
    “This one’s in Florida,” I explained with a crooked smile.
    “Oh. Right. Of course.”
    “On the Gulf,” said the taller one. “It’s real pretty there, and the beaches are fabulous. White sand as far as you can see.”
    “And white people, ” said the shorter one. “It’s the whitest place in the state. Call me old-fashioned, but I could use some of that right now.”
    There was dumbfounded silence from the two of us, so the taller one looked at me earnestly and attempted an explanation. “Our Miata got broke into last week.”
    Another long silence.
    “You know what,” Ben said at last. “I’ve really gotta pee.”

    Back in the bar, we finally released a barrage of groans and giggles. “Damn,” said Ben, “what you won’t do to get high.”
    “Hey. You’re the one who told me to do it.”
    “Where do they make queens like that?”
    “I dunno.” I thought about it for a moment. “The Drama Club at Bob Jones University?”
    Ben laughed. “Guess there has to be one, huh?”
    “I swear, if it weren’t for Mama I’d be on the next plane out of here.”
    “You don’t like it here?” This question came from somewhere behind us, startling us both. We turned to find the burly black bear in the pixilated fatigues, smiling broadly. The name JOHNSON was stitched in black above his breast pocket.
    “Oh, sorry,” I said, “no offense.”
    “None taken,” he said.
    “We just met some assholes,” Ben put in. “It’s nothing to do with Orlando.”
    “That camouflage is trippy,” I said, changing the subject. “That’s the real deal, isn’t it?”
    The guy nodded. “Yeah.”
    “So your name is really Johnson?”
    “Yeah, but that’s not—”
    “Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?”
    He chuckled. “Hell, no, honey. I’ll tell you anything you want. That’s my name, but I don’t do war—I do hair.”
    Okay, shoot me for stereotyping, but I would never have taken him for a hairdresser. Aside from his offhanded use of “honey,” there was nothing especially fey about him. He was more like some languid, gum-chewing UPS man whose forearms make you weak in the knees while you’re trying to sign that little