My Best Man by Andy Schell (top 10 novels TXT) 📕

fine. He bought me a new water fountain for the backyard and installed it himself,” she answers proudly, shifting right back into the surrealism of her real world.

“I got a BMW,” I blurt, shifting into my own current realism.

“Oh, thank God,” she says. “I was always afraid someone was going to recognize you in that VW!”

I was sure she was going to say, “I was always afraid that someone was going to hit you head-on, and you’d be killed.” That’ s what most mothers of rear-engine drivers say. “Well,” I answer positively, “BMWs are very recognizable, very acceptable cars.” “You’ll have to tell Winston.”

“Well, I sort of got it for me and for Amity.” I’m shameless. I didn’t plan this lie it just came out. But I’m completely prepared for its effect.

“Harry Ford,” my mother gushes, “I’m so proud of you! Thinking of Amity before yourself. I’ve had a hunch things would come to this.”

“Well, don’t get too excited, Mom. It looks like I’m going to need your help. You know I’ve never asked for much, and it’s long been made clear by Dad that any requests would have been denied anyway. And even with him gone, I know the conditions of the will have been clearly spelled out, but I was wondering if I could ask you for a small loan. I’m in kind of a bind.”

“I’m perfectly willing to consider it. When are you two comin up? We can talk about it then.”

Fuck, I set myself up. If I bring the girl, I get the loan. If “Mo

I suffer. Why is everything with my mother a negotiation? Hm,

are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m not blackmailing you. It’s just much easier to talk about these money things face to face. general and I are free two weekends from now. How about two?”

“I’m new at my job, you know. Sometimes it’s hard for me get the weekend off but I’ll try. And I’ll talk to Amity.”

“Good. Those BMWs are really very affordable when finances are in order.” Subtext: Those BMWs are really affordable when your fiancee is in order.

“Mother, how are you doing?” I ask tenderly. “I mean cancer.”

“The C-word is nowhere in sight. What I’m worded is the A-word, honey. This AIDS thing is looking more like homosexual-related disease every day. They just isolated the you know. It’s a virus, Harry. You can get it from other men. I’]

glad you’re with Amity now.”

I know she’s trying to manipulate me, and I could argue that viruses aren’t gender specific, but I do feel safer with Amity. “It’s scary, isn’t it?”

“Not a good phone topic. Sorry. Let’s end on an up note. I in for my new breasts next month. I’m ordering a perky little like Sally Field has.”

“Is there anything on Sally Field that isn’t perky?”

“No,” she answers, “and we should all strive to be just her.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re working on it,” I tell her. ‘

likes breasts that have a positive attitude.”

Amity’s out flying, and I’m feeling pent-up. Every time I dial JT’s private phone, I only dial half the numbers before I hang up. I’d just feel weird, sneaking around with some guy who has a wife. It’s not right. I decide to try the gay bars again. Maybe, with my new, improved gym body, it’ll be different. Of course a cold wind blows in from the north, and I have to cover up.

I try a different bar, one with a Country-Western kind of theme. The floor is wooden and worn and covered with sawdust or wood chips or maybe carcasses of dead insects I can’t tell because the lights are so dim. The bartender’s station sits in the middle of the place, and there’s a huge wooden bar with stools that sit in a rectangle all around it. From the jukebox, George Strait sings to the gays, an irony that goes unnoticed by the cowboys at this here homo hoedown, who are acting just as standoffish as the dudes in the S&M bar. Their boots are scuff less and their starched blue jeans and Western shirts have been creased by irons. I suspect their boxer shorts are starched and ironed as well. And they probably put a little dab of cologne on their dick heads.

I just can’t get into it. I’m not tall (even in cowboy boots) and handsome like these guys. Even though I’ve been building up my body at the gym, I’m still average in height and referred to as cute. And cute doesn’t compete with square jaw lines or massive biceps and hulking chests. Worst of all, there’s no starch in my jeans. Everyone continues not to talk to me, and I continue to feel stupid. Stupid because I doubt I’d genuinely be interested in anyone here anyway.

I find a pay phone and call JT. He answers, asks me what I want to do. “Anything,” I yell over the pain and heartache of George’s twang.

“I can’t pass that up, can I?” he answers. I can’t tell if he’s whispering into the phone or if it’s the music in the background that makes him difficult to hear. I hang up. Saddle up. Head out.

We rendezvous at a park off Lover’s Lane (how perfect), close

to Snider Plaza. I arrive first, shut off the engine. Wait. Headli appear. It’s an old green Ford. I think of the day I met Jacq Wonder if it’s her mother’s car. It pulls up beside me. Stops. head nods. It’s him. I wait for him to join me, but he nods for to come over there.

“Hi,” he says, more nervous, less confident than when he my hand at the dealership.

“Hi. You drive a Ford?”

“My wife’s. She’s using my car tonight.” He wastes no

“So what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. You want to trade blow jobs?”

He nods. Looks around to see if anyone is coming. Coast clear. He unzips his zipper, takes out his dick, which I can see in the dark, and