Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

package would make on the memory foam, like a nifty Jell-O mold.
    “So how’s our favorite Wilted Flower?” Ben asked his ex.
    Leo and his friend Bill, who worked for Allstate back in South Bend, had recently moved to Fort Lauderdale and bought a little ranch house in Wilton Manors, the gay neighborhood. Most of the homeowners were fairly old and fairly well off, so Wilted Flowers had become the pejorative-of-choice for locals who saw themselves as neither.
    Leo’s friend Bill is just that, by the way—a friend. The two have never been lovers. They just got tired of selling and wanted to share a place in the sun. As far as I can tell, they’ve both relinquished romance without a fuss. They garden and play bridge and throw luaus for their neighbors and never have to negotiate the politics of three-ways and afternoons at the baths. They will grow old together, those two, tucked in their separate beds (with their separate collections of porn). There must be a certain comfort in knowing that the guy across the cornflakes in the morning has noticed, just like you, how short the days are getting. At least you’re at the finish line together.
    There’s something to be said for that, no doubt.
    But would I trade it for what I have with Ben?
    God no. Not in a million years. Not while love is still something I can taste and touch and nurture and pull down the pants of. Not while I still have a shot at this.
    I’m the lucky one here, of course. It was Ben who got the short end of the stick. The double whammy of HIV and advancing age makes me a pretty shaky deal in the happily-ever-after department. I can at least dream of one day dying in my lover’s arms, but he can’t do the same with me. He’ll have another life entirely, for better or worse.
    “Hey,” he said, speaking to me but still on the phone. “What’s twenty feet long, shaped like a snake, and smells like urine?”
    I looked up from my magazine. “Say what?”
    “It’s a riddle. Leo just told it to me.”
    “I give up. What’s twenty feet long, shaped like a snake, and smells like urine?”
    “The conga line at Chardee’s!”
    I frowned at him. “What the hell is Chardee’s?”
    “You know. The restaurant in Wilton Manors. The supper club. Where the older guys go to get drunk.”
    I made a face at him. “Lovely.”
    Ben laughed. “It was Leo’s joke.”
    “Well, tell him he’s a sick fuck. A sick old fuck.”
    Ben obliged. “He says you’re a sick old fuck.”
    I could hear Leo hooting, enjoying the hell out of this.
    “Ask him,” I told Ben, “if he can spell gerontophobia .”
    Ben wouldn’t take it that far. It wasn’t fair to pick on Leo, however gently. He was too harmless for that. “Cut him some slack,” Ben whispered. “It’s funny.”
    “Hilarious,” I said, returning to my magazine. “Old people pissing themselves.”
    Ben ignored me and spoke to the phone again. “Yeah, sure…he loved it…he always loves your jokes.”

    It must have been the Florida connection that got me thinking about my brother’s impending visit. That steel-trap mind of mine had me gnawing off my leg again. As we lay on the sofa after the movie, Ben noticed the distraction in my eyes.
    “What’s up, babe?”
    “Oh, just…the Irwin thing. He sounded so stricken when we talked.”
    Ben nodded slowly, his intuition confirmed. “Bring him to the house, then. I’ll still be at work. You guys can talk all you want.”
    “He didn’t seem to want that. And how can I tell where we should talk, if I don’t know what he wants to talk about?”
    Ben shrugged. “Give Patreese a call. If it’s anything at all to do with your mom, he might have some idea.”
    I thought that was brilliant and told him so.
    “I try,” said Ben.
    I found Patreese’s cell-phone number on my copy of the power of attorney. He had scribbled it on the bottom at the very last minute, in case we needed him.
    “It’s almost midnight there,” I pointed out.
    “He’ll be up. And if he’s not, he doesn’t have to answer.”
    He answered, as it happened, on the fifth ring. There was noise in the background: screaming, drunken female voices. “Yeah?” he said, shouting above the din.
    “It’s Michael Tolliver.”
    “Who?”
    “Alice’s son. From San Francisco.”
    “Oh, Lord, honey. How are you doin’?”
    “Great,” I said, relieved by his cheerful acknowledgment. “I’m here with Ben.” I swapped a private smile with my husband. “Is this a bad