How Father Tam Ruined Ash Wednesday for Everybody
Part 3: Secret Ingredient Cinnamon Spritzers
So then Obie moved in and one year later presented a strange request -- to have his priest over for supper. We knew he was Catholic, active in his church, out to his priest even. Clearly his religion was important to him, but having a priest over? I grew up Catholic, so I wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept, but Justin had let’s just say, a history with religious institutions and men of the cloth in particular. So naturally his first response was “That will absolutely never happen.” Then I talked to him on the DL and asked basically what would it hurt? I reminded him of what a good roommate Obie was: kind, responsible, intelligent, quiet, an amazing cook, not to mention the embodiment of the term ‘strapping’.
It didn’t take long for him to grumpily agree to it and call me brazen blandisher. But when Obie explained that he wanted Justin to actually be there at the table with him, he reconsidered. Specifically, he said he would “sooner drink fucking hemlock.” So I thought the matter was closed; it’s Justin’s apartment, end of discussion. I underestimated Obie, though.
"He isn't what you imagine," Obie explained. "He's not what you think of when you picture a priest."
"Now you're a mind reader too? And what do you think I picture a priest as?"
"A cliche," Obie said calmly. "A hypocrite. Maybe a child molester. Like a lot of people, you have a piecemeal idea of what a priest is. All the most lurid, sensationalistic details from the evening news put together to make a huge clerical-collared straw man. You're saying you won't give me a chance to show you the difference, but I know you. You're smarter and kinder than that."
Justin's mouth had been open for something sarcastic but that stopped him cold.
"He's right," I said. "Appearances to the contrary, you are."
"You're ganging up on me. That's not fair," he said. "I supposed he's going to fling goddam holy water through the place to bless all the queerness out?"
"There isn't enough holy water in the oceans," I said.
"Just supper," Obie said. "And he's bringing me a crucifix, but it's for my bedroom."
"Afraid of vampires, Jonny Harker?" Justin snorted.
"Not all of them. Just the ones who suck blood," he said.
“It’s fucking crazy.” Justin walked to the living room and back again. “Why the hell do you want me there? Carl is your man, your fellow Catholic.“
“Ex-Catholic,” I corrected.
“No such thing,” he said, stomping from the kitchen to the living room again. “Me, I’m an atheist, the very worst kind; the kind who hates the God he doesn’t believe in, who hates only one thing more than God -- his goddam priests.”
Obie sat in a swivel chair at the breakfast bar and Justin stood ranting in the middle of the living room.
“If you’re trying to convert me …” Justin said.
“I think you know me better than that.”
“Then explain why,” he demanded. One arm extended over the sofa, hand extended, palm up: the universal sign for 'You’re on.'
Obie extended his hand exactly the same way. “Because you and Carl are important to me.” The same gesture as Justin’s, but now it was an invitation, Do this with me.
"Father Tam is important to me too. It’s not the supper itself, it's having the three of y'all in the same room with me. Look, when my father told me to flip a switch and become heterosexual, I lost my 4 brothers. We were close and 2 iof them email me behind Dad's back, but I haven't seen them since. And that really hurts. Plus, everybody told me that what I was looking for didn't exist and I'd never have love or brothers or a family again. But I did have all of that, with Michael, for so long. Till he went.”
My eyes watered and my throat closed up. “Ah,” I said. “Michael was like a brother to you?”
“Among other things.”
“Ah,” I said again, stupidly.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. You know that I love being gay. It’s this wonderful, mysterious gift God has given me and I’m grateful for it. Except for one thing. It took my brothers away from me. I couldn't say this to 90 percent of the men I know, but that’s how we feel to me, like brothers. Please don't think I'm crazy but I feel like Michael brought us together, because he knew more about love than anybody I ever met. He knew when people had the capacity for this off the charts kind of love and how rare it was."
“I don't think you're crazy,” I said, sniffling. And no, I never told him about my Angor Wat dream.
"Oh, Lacrimose Louise is crying. Who could have seen that coming?" Justin proclaimed. He enjoyed reminding me that I cry when Pixar cartoon characters die and during coffee commercials where the long lost brother comes home for a Christmas surprise. He's right -- but I hate it when he can predict it.
Obie and I were both careful not to look at him. After a while he said, “I’m only child and now at the age of 35 I’m an asshole and a curmudgeon who's going to stay that way. I don’t know if I’d be a very good substitute brother to anybody.”
“Not substitute,” Obie said. “Additional. And you already are so it's undebatable.” He stood up slowly. “My point is that I don't think of you two as just roommates and I wanted to share this other part of my life with y'all. If either of you absolutely don’t want any of this, just tell me. I see the intense weirdness magnitude of what I’m asking and …”
"His name is Father Tam?" Justin said. "As in 'Tam O'Shanter'? Oh please please please tell me he's Irish."
Obie looked confused. "No." he said. "Korean. Why?"
"Because then he'd at least be entertaining. Like a James Joyce character: skeptical, spritely yet priggish, utterly wise and therefore completely without hope."
"He's picturing the Lucky Charms leprechaun with a Roman collar," I said. Justin's face was deadpan and irritated at the same time.
“So are you saying yes?” Obie asked.
“All right goddam it,” Justin said. “I guess we’re all going to be dining in with a fucking priest.”
This was good. It proved that Obie’s gliding serenity could go eye to eye with Justin’s fake misanthropy. Usually Obie's undisturbed bliss drove me nuts because it was impossible for me figure out what he was thinking. But this time, I had him. A microfiber of a smile gave him away.
“Thank you. I love you two very much.”
“Of course you do,” Justin said into the storage space under the sink. He rooted around for a minute then stood up with the watering spout. “And what kind of conversation are we supposed to have with this priest? Recent solar panel additions to the Vatican? The absurdly small ratio of bottoms to tops among Austin's gay cowboy community? Showers versus growers? Can we even mention penises?"
"Really Justin?" I scolded.
“No, it’s cool. Anything,” Obie said. "Talk about dicks if you want. Curse and drop the F bomb if you want."
"I do not want. I'm a cranky gay atheist, not a boor," Justin said.
Obie laughed and said, "And apropros to nothing, did I mention that I was thinking about making blueberry pancakes Sunday morning?"
"That's some fucking cheek. You think you can bribe me with blueberry pancakes?"
"Yes."
We watched and waited. He closed his eyes and his chin hit his chest. "Fine. But those blueberries better be picked by left-handed Oaxacan virgins and flown in fresh by goddam peregrine falcon."
"Can we say fuck and goddam if the topic of Bill O'Reilly comes up?" I asked.
Obie tore a small page of paper from the magnetic tablet on the refrigerator and whipped a pen out of his jeans' pocket. "Do not bring up Bill O'Reilly because Father Tam is likely to say fuck or goddam himself." He scribbled something and said, "I know all three of you like Italian so I was thinking lasagna, porcini mushrooms with rice, salad ..."
Justin pointed the spout at me. "The resident bear has been uncharacteristically quiet. Are you up to having Italian with a Korean priest?”
"I’m up to it," I said. "If Father Tam doesn't mind supper with two outrageously flaming queens and me, why should I? He does know we're gay, right?"
"I never used the word,” Obie said. “But yeah, he probably gets it.”
"And he's all right with it?"
With that sweet but sphinx-like face, Obie said "Yes. He gets it."
Justin, looking down into his Boston fern, asked the question that had been wobbling through the air like a bubble. “But isn’t it a sin in your church to 'get it'?”
If it fazed Obie, he didn’t show it but he didn’t answer it either. “I promise, it’s cool, really. He's an awesome guy and you'll love him. Thank you both. A lot. I love you so much." he said and disappeared down the hall.
"You didn't comment on my slightly understated age of 35," Justin said.
"Oh believe me, I don't have to," I said. "Wow. Brothers. That is so intense and Obiescent. You realize he’s completely sincere about all of this, right?"
Justin said "He's young, tall, and baritone, so does it matter?" Then he exhaled a sigh that was weighted, even for him. “Jesus, Mary, and all the saints help him, I have no doubt that he is as sincere as the rain."
After that, Justin and I called it the Feast of Father Tam. I was looking forward to it, but on that morning before sunrise, dry straight-line winds blew through Austin and caused damage around town. Obie came home and broke the news to us that the Feast of Father Tam would be delayed. During the night a gale blew down a tall old China ball tree onto the church. It took out some gutters and a few roof tiles, but worst, a limb hit a stained glass window of St. Cecilia, Virgin and Martyr, and shattered it. Apparently Fr. Tam and a few handy parishioners were working overtime to clean up the mess, and he had to reschedule.
"Poo-yi-yi,*" said my boyfriend Cage. He sat next to me on the sofa playing games on my laptop and Justin was watching TV from his ratty blue recliner.
"And that was one of the coolest windows in the church," Obie said. "She had a harp in one hand, a lute at her feet, and looked a little like Gwen Steffani." Obie's habit was to say these odd things with so little inflection Justin and I had trouble knowing if they were jokes of ultra-low-frequency understatement or just observations.
"It probably wasn't caused by demonic forces desperate to keep his holy ass out of this haunted yet exquisitely decorated den of iniquity," Justin said. "Accidents happen."
"Yeah. Even to saints," Obie said. "They had to tape up a polyethylene drop cloth in her window.”
“Well, polyethylene. That'll keep keep out secular humanism,” I said.
"It'll keep out the bugs, too," Cage said, focused on 'de Blob 2'.
"What are you eating there, Justin?" Obie asked.
"Two slices of processed cheese food with a slice of bologna in between. It's his idea of low carb, protein rich lunch," I explained.
Cage was torn between ignoring the conversation (he had an inbred fear of ever being rude) and losing his battle against Inkies. "Bologna's good," he said.
"So, Father Tam’s next available night is the 13th, next Sunday. I told him I'd check with y'all.”
I was thinking The 13th, the 13th, what do I have that day? February 13th is ....
"February 13th." I said. "The next day is the 14th."
"Wow, really?" Justin said through a mouthful of bologna.
"The 14th is Valentine's Day," Cage said.
"And you’re having friends over, I remembered," Obie said. "But, look, I will set up the party for y'all and clean up the entire aftermath. You won't have to lift a finger.”
I laughed. "To be young again. I remember when parties had aftermaths. At this point I am a middle aged computer geek, Justin is a furniture monger. We both have one foot in middle age and the other on a banana peel, so there doesn't tend to be much aftermath to our parties.”
"I hate it when you say that," Justin complained. "I am Austin's top rated, at least in my own mind, Interior Designer," Justin said.
"Well excuse me for trying to avoid the great gay cliche," I said. "I always have thought of you as a Premier Urban Designer."
This was actually a joke I stole from Cage, who snickered.
"What, Mr. LeJeune?" Justin snapped. "You doubt my abilities to make mere fucking living spaces into magical spaces for living?"
Cage never looked up. "Not at all, man. I think you're probably the best Primier Urban Designer ..." He could finish his sentence without laughing.
A snickering noise came out of Obie's nose. He got it. "What about .... Developer Of Ottomans, Furniture, Urban Sectionals?" I had to spell it out in my head but then I sniggered too.
Justin eyed us. "I wouldn't place an ottoman or sectional in a goddam pig sty. I have no idea what you three stooges are tittering at but I'm pretty sure it's beneath my dignity. What fucking ever." He scowled. "And I am not middle aged.”
"I'm middle age and you're older than me," I said.
"When the lights go out after the party, you act pretty damn young, beau coeur**," he said. He didn't take his eyes off his game.
"Oh you kid," I said. I gave Obie a thumbs up. "Sunday night's good for me."
Obie gave Justin his most beatific gaze and cleared his throat.
“Yeah, Sunday's fine," Justin said. "It might be small and cozy, but our VD event is a tradition. Our friends expect it and your attendance is mandatory, preferably without your priest.”
I disagreed. "There is no tradition. We have a few friends over to sip beverages, eat red velvet cake. There is no 'event'."
"The hell there isn't. Three years in a row," Justin said. "That counts as tradition. And I beg your fucking pardon but we don't merely sip beverages. We sip my Secret Ingredient Cinnamon Spritzers which are legendary.”
I put my hand on the top of my head for emphasis: "It’s true, Obie. They are awesome. Legendary is not an overstatement."
Without looking up Cage said, "They are slap-yo-mama good."
Justin shifted in his chair. "Well ... thank you. Yes they are. They're my contribution to civilization. I'm glad I could leave the world having given something back." Sincere compliments freaked him out and demure on him was like a nun's habit on Lindsay Lohan. “I could probably figure out a way to make some without liquor." In the year we lived with him we learned that Obie didn’t drink alcohol, and were biding our time to find out why.
"That'd be great," he said simply. “Sunday service ends at 5:30, and he should be here by 7:00. You'll be there Cage?"
"Naw. Can't. Working till nine on the 13th," he said, engrossed.
Justin crossed then recrossed his legs, oozing nonchalance. “So you don’t drink, but your priest does?”
“Yes,” he said in a maddeningly unnuanced tone. “Or at least he'd have one of your cinnamon shots.”
“Spritzers,” Justin corrected. “And yes ... a tipsy priest would add an entirely different dimension to the evening. But advise him that the secret ingredient is not Blue fucking Nun.”
“He’ll be glad to hear that. So what is the secret ingredient, if I might ask?”
“You might not.” Justin said.
Taking my life in my hands, I said “A trace, like half a molar mass, of cayenne pepper.”
That yanked Cage away from his game. "Aw no..." he said. "Why'd you tell him?"
Justin stared at me for a second, then exploded. “How did you know that? Goddam it all to hell! How did you know?” I deliberately didn't look at Cage but Justin tramped to the sofa to face him. "You! I bet you were weaned on it and could sniff it out in a gumbo three fucking parishes away, couldn't you?"
Cage closed my laptop and said, “Yeah, I told him. Sorry poteau***."
"I guess, what? He tortured it out of you?"
When Cage is trying not to laugh no power on earth can keep him from smirking, which he was doing now. "Yeah! I was helpless under his power. He stripped me and tied me up and used his levier**** to crack me open like a safe."
"No, no, no, no!" Justin whooped. "TMI, please. Nobody wants to hear the details of your fucking ... fucking."
"I do," said Obie. Cage's eyes squinted shut when he laughed.
"It'll never leave this circle," I said. "Your secret ingredient is safe. Hoards of muscled, hairy werewolves couldn't drag it out of us.”
He pointed two fingers as if he were hexing us. “All three of you dickwads will go to your graves with that information, do you hear me?”
I crossed my heart with one finger and Obie did the zipping-the-lip thing. Justin chuffed off to his room.
"He's so funny," Cage said. "Premier Urban Designer. You better let him in on the joke, beebee, before he puts that on his business cards."
______________________________
*This is a Cajun expression, pronounced just like it looks, that means something like "oh my gosh" or "wow." After three years in Austin he still used Cajunisms, but not like before when no Texan knew what the hell he was ever talking about; at least now more than 3/4ths of his sentences are in English. And some of these terms might look crazy, but when they come from him they're obscenely charming.
**One of his pet names for me that involve the word coeur or 'heart'. Beau coeur means 'beautiful heart'.
*** 'Pal' or 'buddy'. He says it's literally "drink water."
**** Yes, you guessed right: 'lever'. I won't expound on the implications.
Part 3: Secret Ingredient Cinnamon Spritzers
So then Obie moved in and one year later presented a strange request -- to have his priest over for supper. We knew he was Catholic, active in his church, out to his priest even. Clearly his religion was important to him, but having a priest over? I grew up Catholic, so I wasn’t unfamiliar with the concept, but Justin had let’s just say, a history with religious institutions and men of the cloth in particular. So naturally his first response was “That will absolutely never happen.” Then I talked to him on the DL and asked basically what would it hurt? I reminded him of what a good roommate Obie was: kind, responsible, intelligent, quiet, an amazing cook, not to mention the embodiment of the term ‘strapping’.
It didn’t take long for him to grumpily agree to it and call me brazen blandisher. But when Obie explained that he wanted Justin to actually be there at the table with him, he reconsidered. Specifically, he said he would “sooner drink fucking hemlock.” So I thought the matter was closed; it’s Justin’s apartment, end of discussion. I underestimated Obie, though.
"He isn't what you imagine," Obie explained. "He's not what you think of when you picture a priest."
"Now you're a mind reader too? And what do you think I picture a priest as?"
"A cliche," Obie said calmly. "A hypocrite. Maybe a child molester. Like a lot of people, you have a piecemeal idea of what a priest is. All the most lurid, sensationalistic details from the evening news put together to make a huge clerical-collared straw man. You're saying you won't give me a chance to show you the difference, but I know you. You're smarter and kinder than that."
Justin's mouth had been open for something sarcastic but that stopped him cold.
"He's right," I said. "Appearances to the contrary, you are."
"You're ganging up on me. That's not fair," he said. "I supposed he's going to fling goddam holy water through the place to bless all the queerness out?"
"There isn't enough holy water in the oceans," I said.
"Just supper," Obie said. "And he's bringing me a crucifix, but it's for my bedroom."
"Afraid of vampires, Jonny Harker?" Justin snorted.
"Not all of them. Just the ones who suck blood," he said.
“It’s fucking crazy.” Justin walked to the living room and back again. “Why the hell do you want me there? Carl is your man, your fellow Catholic.“
“Ex-Catholic,” I corrected.
“No such thing,” he said, stomping from the kitchen to the living room again. “Me, I’m an atheist, the very worst kind; the kind who hates the God he doesn’t believe in, who hates only one thing more than God -- his goddam priests.”
Obie sat in a swivel chair at the breakfast bar and Justin stood ranting in the middle of the living room.
“If you’re trying to convert me …” Justin said.
“I think you know me better than that.”
“Then explain why,” he demanded. One arm extended over the sofa, hand extended, palm up: the universal sign for 'You’re on.'
Obie extended his hand exactly the same way. “Because you and Carl are important to me.” The same gesture as Justin’s, but now it was an invitation, Do this with me.
"Father Tam is important to me too. It’s not the supper itself, it's having the three of y'all in the same room with me. Look, when my father told me to flip a switch and become heterosexual, I lost my 4 brothers. We were close and 2 iof them email me behind Dad's back, but I haven't seen them since. And that really hurts. Plus, everybody told me that what I was looking for didn't exist and I'd never have love or brothers or a family again. But I did have all of that, with Michael, for so long. Till he went.”
My eyes watered and my throat closed up. “Ah,” I said. “Michael was like a brother to you?”
“Among other things.”
“Ah,” I said again, stupidly.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. You know that I love being gay. It’s this wonderful, mysterious gift God has given me and I’m grateful for it. Except for one thing. It took my brothers away from me. I couldn't say this to 90 percent of the men I know, but that’s how we feel to me, like brothers. Please don't think I'm crazy but I feel like Michael brought us together, because he knew more about love than anybody I ever met. He knew when people had the capacity for this off the charts kind of love and how rare it was."
“I don't think you're crazy,” I said, sniffling. And no, I never told him about my Angor Wat dream.
"Oh, Lacrimose Louise is crying. Who could have seen that coming?" Justin proclaimed. He enjoyed reminding me that I cry when Pixar cartoon characters die and during coffee commercials where the long lost brother comes home for a Christmas surprise. He's right -- but I hate it when he can predict it.
Obie and I were both careful not to look at him. After a while he said, “I’m only child and now at the age of 35 I’m an asshole and a curmudgeon who's going to stay that way. I don’t know if I’d be a very good substitute brother to anybody.”
“Not substitute,” Obie said. “Additional. And you already are so it's undebatable.” He stood up slowly. “My point is that I don't think of you two as just roommates and I wanted to share this other part of my life with y'all. If either of you absolutely don’t want any of this, just tell me. I see the intense weirdness magnitude of what I’m asking and …”
"His name is Father Tam?" Justin said. "As in 'Tam O'Shanter'? Oh please please please tell me he's Irish."
Obie looked confused. "No." he said. "Korean. Why?"
"Because then he'd at least be entertaining. Like a James Joyce character: skeptical, spritely yet priggish, utterly wise and therefore completely without hope."
"He's picturing the Lucky Charms leprechaun with a Roman collar," I said. Justin's face was deadpan and irritated at the same time.
“So are you saying yes?” Obie asked.
“All right goddam it,” Justin said. “I guess we’re all going to be dining in with a fucking priest.”
This was good. It proved that Obie’s gliding serenity could go eye to eye with Justin’s fake misanthropy. Usually Obie's undisturbed bliss drove me nuts because it was impossible for me figure out what he was thinking. But this time, I had him. A microfiber of a smile gave him away.
“Thank you. I love you two very much.”
“Of course you do,” Justin said into the storage space under the sink. He rooted around for a minute then stood up with the watering spout. “And what kind of conversation are we supposed to have with this priest? Recent solar panel additions to the Vatican? The absurdly small ratio of bottoms to tops among Austin's gay cowboy community? Showers versus growers? Can we even mention penises?"
"Really Justin?" I scolded.
“No, it’s cool. Anything,” Obie said. "Talk about dicks if you want. Curse and drop the F bomb if you want."
"I do not want. I'm a cranky gay atheist, not a boor," Justin said.
Obie laughed and said, "And apropros to nothing, did I mention that I was thinking about making blueberry pancakes Sunday morning?"
"That's some fucking cheek. You think you can bribe me with blueberry pancakes?"
"Yes."
We watched and waited. He closed his eyes and his chin hit his chest. "Fine. But those blueberries better be picked by left-handed Oaxacan virgins and flown in fresh by goddam peregrine falcon."
"Can we say fuck and goddam if the topic of Bill O'Reilly comes up?" I asked.
Obie tore a small page of paper from the magnetic tablet on the refrigerator and whipped a pen out of his jeans' pocket. "Do not bring up Bill O'Reilly because Father Tam is likely to say fuck or goddam himself." He scribbled something and said, "I know all three of you like Italian so I was thinking lasagna, porcini mushrooms with rice, salad ..."
Justin pointed the spout at me. "The resident bear has been uncharacteristically quiet. Are you up to having Italian with a Korean priest?”
"I’m up to it," I said. "If Father Tam doesn't mind supper with two outrageously flaming queens and me, why should I? He does know we're gay, right?"
"I never used the word,” Obie said. “But yeah, he probably gets it.”
"And he's all right with it?"
With that sweet but sphinx-like face, Obie said "Yes. He gets it."
Justin, looking down into his Boston fern, asked the question that had been wobbling through the air like a bubble. “But isn’t it a sin in your church to 'get it'?”
If it fazed Obie, he didn’t show it but he didn’t answer it either. “I promise, it’s cool, really. He's an awesome guy and you'll love him. Thank you both. A lot. I love you so much." he said and disappeared down the hall.
"You didn't comment on my slightly understated age of 35," Justin said.
"Oh believe me, I don't have to," I said. "Wow. Brothers. That is so intense and Obiescent. You realize he’s completely sincere about all of this, right?"
Justin said "He's young, tall, and baritone, so does it matter?" Then he exhaled a sigh that was weighted, even for him. “Jesus, Mary, and all the saints help him, I have no doubt that he is as sincere as the rain."
After that, Justin and I called it the Feast of Father Tam. I was looking forward to it, but on that morning before sunrise, dry straight-line winds blew through Austin and caused damage around town. Obie came home and broke the news to us that the Feast of Father Tam would be delayed. During the night a gale blew down a tall old China ball tree onto the church. It took out some gutters and a few roof tiles, but worst, a limb hit a stained glass window of St. Cecilia, Virgin and Martyr, and shattered it. Apparently Fr. Tam and a few handy parishioners were working overtime to clean up the mess, and he had to reschedule.
"Poo-yi-yi,*" said my boyfriend Cage. He sat next to me on the sofa playing games on my laptop and Justin was watching TV from his ratty blue recliner.
"And that was one of the coolest windows in the church," Obie said. "She had a harp in one hand, a lute at her feet, and looked a little like Gwen Steffani." Obie's habit was to say these odd things with so little inflection Justin and I had trouble knowing if they were jokes of ultra-low-frequency understatement or just observations.
"It probably wasn't caused by demonic forces desperate to keep his holy ass out of this haunted yet exquisitely decorated den of iniquity," Justin said. "Accidents happen."
"Yeah. Even to saints," Obie said. "They had to tape up a polyethylene drop cloth in her window.”
“Well, polyethylene. That'll keep keep out secular humanism,” I said.
"It'll keep out the bugs, too," Cage said, focused on 'de Blob 2'.
"What are you eating there, Justin?" Obie asked.
"Two slices of processed cheese food with a slice of bologna in between. It's his idea of low carb, protein rich lunch," I explained.
Cage was torn between ignoring the conversation (he had an inbred fear of ever being rude) and losing his battle against Inkies. "Bologna's good," he said.
"So, Father Tam’s next available night is the 13th, next Sunday. I told him I'd check with y'all.”
I was thinking The 13th, the 13th, what do I have that day? February 13th is ....
"February 13th." I said. "The next day is the 14th."
"Wow, really?" Justin said through a mouthful of bologna.
"The 14th is Valentine's Day," Cage said.
"And you’re having friends over, I remembered," Obie said. "But, look, I will set up the party for y'all and clean up the entire aftermath. You won't have to lift a finger.”
I laughed. "To be young again. I remember when parties had aftermaths. At this point I am a middle aged computer geek, Justin is a furniture monger. We both have one foot in middle age and the other on a banana peel, so there doesn't tend to be much aftermath to our parties.”
"I hate it when you say that," Justin complained. "I am Austin's top rated, at least in my own mind, Interior Designer," Justin said.
"Well excuse me for trying to avoid the great gay cliche," I said. "I always have thought of you as a Premier Urban Designer."
This was actually a joke I stole from Cage, who snickered.
"What, Mr. LeJeune?" Justin snapped. "You doubt my abilities to make mere fucking living spaces into magical spaces for living?"
Cage never looked up. "Not at all, man. I think you're probably the best Primier Urban Designer ..." He could finish his sentence without laughing.
A snickering noise came out of Obie's nose. He got it. "What about .... Developer Of Ottomans, Furniture, Urban Sectionals?" I had to spell it out in my head but then I sniggered too.
Justin eyed us. "I wouldn't place an ottoman or sectional in a goddam pig sty. I have no idea what you three stooges are tittering at but I'm pretty sure it's beneath my dignity. What fucking ever." He scowled. "And I am not middle aged.”
"I'm middle age and you're older than me," I said.
"When the lights go out after the party, you act pretty damn young, beau coeur**," he said. He didn't take his eyes off his game.
"Oh you kid," I said. I gave Obie a thumbs up. "Sunday night's good for me."
Obie gave Justin his most beatific gaze and cleared his throat.
“Yeah, Sunday's fine," Justin said. "It might be small and cozy, but our VD event is a tradition. Our friends expect it and your attendance is mandatory, preferably without your priest.”
I disagreed. "There is no tradition. We have a few friends over to sip beverages, eat red velvet cake. There is no 'event'."
"The hell there isn't. Three years in a row," Justin said. "That counts as tradition. And I beg your fucking pardon but we don't merely sip beverages. We sip my Secret Ingredient Cinnamon Spritzers which are legendary.”
I put my hand on the top of my head for emphasis: "It’s true, Obie. They are awesome. Legendary is not an overstatement."
Without looking up Cage said, "They are slap-yo-mama good."
Justin shifted in his chair. "Well ... thank you. Yes they are. They're my contribution to civilization. I'm glad I could leave the world having given something back." Sincere compliments freaked him out and demure on him was like a nun's habit on Lindsay Lohan. “I could probably figure out a way to make some without liquor." In the year we lived with him we learned that Obie didn’t drink alcohol, and were biding our time to find out why.
"That'd be great," he said simply. “Sunday service ends at 5:30, and he should be here by 7:00. You'll be there Cage?"
"Naw. Can't. Working till nine on the 13th," he said, engrossed.
Justin crossed then recrossed his legs, oozing nonchalance. “So you don’t drink, but your priest does?”
“Yes,” he said in a maddeningly unnuanced tone. “Or at least he'd have one of your cinnamon shots.”
“Spritzers,” Justin corrected. “And yes ... a tipsy priest would add an entirely different dimension to the evening. But advise him that the secret ingredient is not Blue fucking Nun.”
“He’ll be glad to hear that. So what is the secret ingredient, if I might ask?”
“You might not.” Justin said.
Taking my life in my hands, I said “A trace, like half a molar mass, of cayenne pepper.”
That yanked Cage away from his game. "Aw no..." he said. "Why'd you tell him?"
Justin stared at me for a second, then exploded. “How did you know that? Goddam it all to hell! How did you know?” I deliberately didn't look at Cage but Justin tramped to the sofa to face him. "You! I bet you were weaned on it and could sniff it out in a gumbo three fucking parishes away, couldn't you?"
Cage closed my laptop and said, “Yeah, I told him. Sorry poteau***."
"I guess, what? He tortured it out of you?"
When Cage is trying not to laugh no power on earth can keep him from smirking, which he was doing now. "Yeah! I was helpless under his power. He stripped me and tied me up and used his levier**** to crack me open like a safe."
"No, no, no, no!" Justin whooped. "TMI, please. Nobody wants to hear the details of your fucking ... fucking."
"I do," said Obie. Cage's eyes squinted shut when he laughed.
"It'll never leave this circle," I said. "Your secret ingredient is safe. Hoards of muscled, hairy werewolves couldn't drag it out of us.”
He pointed two fingers as if he were hexing us. “All three of you dickwads will go to your graves with that information, do you hear me?”
I crossed my heart with one finger and Obie did the zipping-the-lip thing. Justin chuffed off to his room.
"He's so funny," Cage said. "Premier Urban Designer. You better let him in on the joke, beebee, before he puts that on his business cards."
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*This is a Cajun expression, pronounced just like it looks, that means something like "oh my gosh" or "wow." After three years in Austin he still used Cajunisms, but not like before when no Texan knew what the hell he was ever talking about; at least now more than 3/4ths of his sentences are in English. And some of these terms might look crazy, but when they come from him they're obscenely charming.
**One of his pet names for me that involve the word coeur or 'heart'. Beau coeur means 'beautiful heart'.
*** 'Pal' or 'buddy'. He says it's literally "drink water."
**** Yes, you guessed right: 'lever'. I won't expound on the implications.
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