One More Thing: Stories and Other Stories(62)

“That’s okay,” said his father. “There’s a lot you don’t know yet. You’re just ten years old. A lot …” His father sounded unsure. “A lot … Let’s go.”

Don put the two hard hats back on the table, and then put his hand on his son’s shoulder to steady his hurt as they walked to the car.


As they walked, Don Junior tried his best to keep a straight face.





The Bravest Thing I Ever Did





I went to the Transgender Alliance Support Group meeting.

I waited over an hour to speak.

Hearing all the stories.

Finally it was my turn.

“Sometimes, I feel like a man trapped in a woman’s body,” I said.

Everybody nodded.

“That’s how tight my girlfriend’s * is.” I smirked, holding the smirk just long enough for them all to get it. It took a while, since this was not what they were expecting at all. But I was also careful not to wait so long that I couldn’t get the cool comic timing exactly right for my exit.

“Smell ya later,” I said with a wink, and walked right out of the room.


It’s not always enough to be brave, I realized years later. You have to be brave and contribute something positive, too. Brave on its own is just a party trick.





Rome





The couple retired to a villa in Rieti, Italy, that they had learned about from an in-flight magazine feature on affordable retirement destinations. It was about fifty minutes outside of Rome by car, and the husband often went into Rome for errands.

“This car charger isn’t working for some reason. I’m going to head into Rome and get a new one.”

“Don’t they have them in the gas station in town? I’m sure I’ve seen them there.”

“Maybe, but better selection in Rome, probably. Better prices in Rome, too. They’re always going to charge you more at a gas station in a small town. It’s a convenience fee that you’re paying in those places. It’s fine, I was going to be heading that way anyway—I’ve been meaning to swing by Rome to get some garden shears, too. Anything else? I can call you and check when I get to Rome.”

He loved saying “Rome” like that. “Head into Rome,” “swing by Rome.” It was just the nearest place to them. How cool was that! Rome, the city of legends, of conquerors, of history, of myth—this was where he bought batteries! The place that people saved up to visit their whole lives: for him, this really was simply the place where he might fill up on gas one day and where the next day he’d have to know the right shop to pick up flowers for his wife to thank her for making dinner—with ingredients he had also picked up in Rome. Rome! That’s all Rome was to him! Nothing special at all!

“I should be home by five, or six at the latest. It’s Tuesday, so you never know about that rush hour traffic, coming out of Rome.”

“Okay. That’s fine. See you then.”

“See you then!”

And he headed into Rome.





The Literalist’s Love Poem





Roses are rose.

Violets are violet.

I love you.





J. C. Audetat, Translator of Don Quixote





It wasn’t a good time to be a poet, which is what he was. But it was a good time to almost be a poet, which is what he almost was.


“Have you heard this song? It’s like poetry.”

“I will have to check it out!”


“Have you read this book? It is poetry.”

“Oh, no thank you.”


J. C. Audetat was born with the talent of a poet, the temperament of a poet, and the particular good looks that are not necessary but happen to be ideal in a poet.

But while poetry was what he was best at, there seemed to be no good place for poetry in his day, except for obscure journals edited by people who didn’t particularly impress him and read by people who didn’t impress him, either, probably because they were the same people.

This was the minor tragedy of being born with the skills and ambition of J. C. Audetat, who dreamed of being a great poet, and—in a separate but connected dream—of living the life of a great poet. Unlike the precontent pretenders whom the world seemed to consider his contemporaries, J. C. Audetat cared too much about the world to hide away his life’s work in such a lonely corner of it. He wanted his words to be everywhere. He wanted them in airports, and he wanted them stolen by teenagers, and he wanted them in bookstores that also sold things.


As he continued to write poetry of high skill but irrelevant impact, J. C. Audetat did his best to claim the rewards that would be due a great poet in an adjacent era through adjacent means.

For the moderate riches due a great poet, he took work within an elite and well-paid circle of freelance magazine writers.

For the adoration due a great poet, he made a point of writing his articles longhand on legal pads in fashionable cafes, always looking like a brilliant, beautiful mess, a priceless piece of set decoration for any independently owned coffee shop: the poet completely lost in his work, pausing only to explain—often, and at length, depending on the questioner—what it was he was working on.