the last storylet of November (but not of the year)

[ritaxis]

Wearing green


Watercress is an especially useful plant because it grows so thickly all year in culverts and on wet cliffsides at the beach and by the road and it doesn't seem to take up the pollutants which can so often be found in such places. It can be a bit much by itself, but it goes into other foods quite helpfully. With cream cheese and chives, and cucumbers if you feel like it, it makes an elegant sandwich filling. It can be floated on clear broth at the last minute or introduced earlier into potato soup. It perks up a salad nicely.

Marek wanted to turn Paul down when he called. "I'm not feeling sociable these days," he said. "Anyway, it doesn't look like it will be raining on the weekend. I'll want to spend the whole time outdoors. I have to go check out the checkerbloom. Last year it was up by now."

"Look, you have to come," Paul said. "How can I ask you to make the food if you're not going to be a guest too? You're not my caterer, you're my friend."

In the end Marek promised to make the food and to hang around for an hour. Privately he promised himself not to leave the kitchen between his arrival and his departure. His friends would find him there. He could avoid the crowd. And Jackson. Especially Jackson.

Jackson got Paul's invitation when he checked his messages after a distressing night out. The fellow had been exactly what Jackson wanted: urbane, smooth, intellectual, and interested in all the same things as Jackson. They spent dinner agreeing with each other, and afterwards they'd gone to a movie and then had coffee and agreed with each other some more. The guy was cute, too. But when they got to bed -- it was like being with himself. He got off, but that was all.

Thumbing through his messages he heard Paul's voice. "It's corny, I know, and it's almost last minute, but -- just, just come. I promise it will be okay at least. Who knows, you might see the love of your life there."

Jackson called Paul right away. "This better be good," was Paul's greeting. "It's past one in the morning."

"You're a miserable poltroon," Jackson said.

"Does that mean you're coming?" Paul asked. "I can guarantee the food will be good."

"It's not a starter," Jackson said. "Stop throwing him at me."

"I'm not," Paul said. "It's too late for that."

"Okay then," Jackson said.

"So you'll come? Mackay's brother's bringing in a couple of his friends from down south."
"Down which south?"

"I didn't ask. Isn't that reason enough to come? Admit it, you're curious. Just wear something green. You know what day it is, and when Mackay and Jenina get drunk I won't answer for them."

Marek got up early and took a walk in the wooded hills before heading down to his favorite watercress culvert. He filled two shopping bags with carefully plucked plants. He also found a large patch of dwarf callas and brought an armful of them along.

He put the callas in water and emptied the watercress into the bathtub, the only place large enough for what he had to do. He filled the tub with cool water and swished the watercress around. A call interrupted him as he began to drain the tub for a second rinse. It was Paul. "You're not going to to wear that godawful flannel shirt," he said.

"Paul, it's green. I have to wear something green today, you know that. Your obnoxious friends will pinch me black and blue if I don't."

Paul sighed. "Don't you have anything else green to wear? You're the fucking old man of the woods, you've got to have green clothes that aren't flannel. And no corduroy either, unless it's fashion forward, okay?"

"I'm the fucking young man of the woods, don't forget that, and I think I have four shirts that have collars and aren't flannel, and they're blue. As are most of the flannel shirts. And if you don't want me in jeans, it will be corduroy. Unless you want me to wear my orange swimming suit. See who likes that. It's board shorts with blue piping."

"Okay, okay. Do what you have to. What time are you getting here?"

"Well, if you get off the phone I can be there when I said I'd be there, eleven o'clock. Look, are you trying to set me up with somebody? Because we all know how well it went the last time I met somebody at your house."

"Well . . ." Paul admitted slowly, "Mackay's brother does have these hot friends from down south . . ."

"No way," Marek said. "I won't even talk to anyone I don't already know. I'm barely up to that. I'm going to let you go, now. I've got greens to prepare."

When Jackson arrived at Paul's apartment he was hit by a complex of aromas: something earthy, something sweet, something savory, something rich. A buffet table had been set up in Paul's livingroom, with flowerpots of yellow oxalis blooming in a line down the center, the midpoint being occupied by a display of dwarf callas and forget-me-nots. The table was lined on both sides with covered dishes, some on warmers, and artsy crude crockery. Embracing Paul, Jackson said, "I was expecting an Irish theme. Harps and Guinness, like that."

"There's a harpist coming later," Paul said. "I've got Mackay getting him really drunk first. You can credit Marek for the decorations. He bullied me, honestly. I only asked him to make some Irish food. I guess some of it's Irish. Not corned beef, though. He said it isn't particularly Irish anyway."

Jackson handed off the bottle of wine he had brought and went in search of conversation. He saw a man in a chef's coat bustle in from the kitchen and fuss around the table before turning back, peeling off the chef's coat as he went. He couldn't see the man's face, but he had an unruly head of hair. Jackson hoped he was staying. He wasn't wearing any green that Jackson could see, and that would leave an opening for Jackson to not pinch him and to talk to him about it.

Mackay's brother was a breeder, but the cadre he brought from the mysterious south was about half-and-half. They were a little too young for Jackson, but not by a lot. He enjoyed sparring with them, anyway. The harpist arrived, drunk as Paul promised, with a couple of cuties to help him set up. Paul said, "I'd better get Marek. He'll miss it if I don't," and went off into the kitchen. Jackson watched the kitchen door. Paul came out leading Marek by the hand. Marek --

was crowned with a bacchanalian mess of trailing leaves of several kinds. A stiff bay laurel tiara dripped a libertine veil of mysterious green things of various shapes. Paul whispered in Marek's ear and Marek simpered, punching Paul lightly in the shoulder. As the harpist sat down with a fussy flourish and touched his fingers to the strings, Paul took Marek's shoulders and pushed him in front.

Marek watched the harpist. Jackson watched Marek. Marek's clothes were the color of his hair, a dark brown chenille sweater and wide wale corduroys -- like his hair had thickened all over his body into a real pelt. More than ever, he looked like an enchanted animal, or a spirit of the forest, with his flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

Jackson didn't care much for the first tune. It was too pretty and soft. But the second one matched the mood that had come on him after seeing Marek practically in Paul's arms: it was melancholic, but edgy, as if Jello Biaffra had collaborated with a balladeer of the Troubles. Marek closed his eyes. When he opened them, he found Jackson's, Jackson saw his eyes widen, his mouth open as if to speak. Marek turned and said something to Paul, embraced him briefly, and fled back to the kitchen. Jackson took a step forward, then stayed put.

The harpist made it through three more tunes before he declared he was too drunk to go on. Mackay took the harpist under her wing and plied him with potato soup. Jackson ate some green-filled sandwiches and some little fried cakes, like crab cakes, which appeared to be yet more potato and green. Then he thought he'd been there long enough, and he went to make his farewells with Paul.

"So, I didn't know when you said you weren't throwing Marek at me any more, it was because he was with you now," Jackson said.

Paul frowned in puzzlement. "Marek's not with me," he said slowly. "That's not what I meant."

"Oh," Jackson said, as in his peripheral vision, he saw Marek vanishing out the front door.

Comments

[mjlayman.livejournal.com]

"breeder" makes me shudder a little, but that may be what you want. Not all het people have kids, after all. There's a substantial community that calls itself "child-free" which also bothers me a bit, although I can see why they don't want to be called "childless."

The WashPost had a blog report (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/11/24/AR2006112401005.html) recently on the child-free and so many of the people mentioned seemed guilty when they replied to people who asked why they don't have kids. I don't feel guilty -- I don't want kids and I wouldn't be a good parent.

[ritaxis.livejournal.com]

Yeah, "breeder" is supposed to sound off, though I'm not sure whose POV that reflects -- probably Paul's, now that I think of it.

I try to head people off when they beat their chests about not being parents. My kids benefitted greatly from the fact that more than half our friends have none.