David Alan Dedin
Strike A Pose
Nine
Strike a Pose
1991
Alan and Patrick were deep in conversation when Guinevere’s LeBaron – driven by a blonde so buff, he looked like He Man – careened into the Checker’s parking lot, stopping in the aisle, rather than a space. Vogue, Madonna’s latest song, was blasting on the stereo. With the engine still running, Dan, Gwen’s new boy-toy, a meathead who’d clearly chosen gym over college, planted an unsettlingly long kiss on her lips before allowing her to leave, then peeling away in her own car.
Gwen tottered as though she had a dumbbell up her hotbox before noticing the two in the server lot’s far corner. She skipped like a schoolgirl towards Patrick’s Eldorado, where Alan had his arms crossed, leaning on the trunk. Whatever these two were talking about, she knew that it was good –
The guys looked up as she neared. Guinevere, as always, delivered her news like a punch line. “Guess who just had sex?” – she brought her thumbs to her chest – “THIS girl!”
“In the car?” Patrick smiled. “I hope you put a towel down first.”
Gwen waited for Alan’s inevitable comeback – “What? My Schnookums pleasured her magical moisture muffin without me?” – and was noticeably taken back when it failed to materialize. Her eyes then narrowed to slits. “You two are as thick as thieves. What are you up to?” Alan lit a cigarette to dodge the question, but she read him like a book –
“Okay…now I know you’re up to something –
“Spill it!”
“Patrick just told me something very interesting,” Alan admitted, exhaling a long trail of silver into the air. As the smoke lingered, Gwen looked at him strangely, but then her eyes widened, when the light bulb got so bright, it exploded. Her face shot towards Patrick, gasping –
“You are a THIEF!” Her words were almost giddy. “That is so fucking…cool!”
“SHH…!!!” Finger to his lips, Patrick quickly glanced down the lot, making sure they weren’t just overheard. “Please, Gwen…keep your voice down.”
“That is so fucking cool!” she repeated in a comical whisper. “How much did you get? Was it over a grand?”
“Was it OV-ER a grand…” Alan rolled his eyes so hard, they briefly went white. His tone wasn’t angry, but Patrick did just lie to his face yesterday. And he fucked up his hair. Also, Alan himself still hadn’t finished processing the totality of this indecent proposal – and how it might affect their lives, should they ever get caught. It was a risk.
A big risk.
“Are you going to steal something again?” Gwen asked Patrick excitedly. “Are you guys going to rob a bank? If yes, then I want in.”
“We’re not going to rob a bank,” Patrick assured her. “We’d go to jail for that.”
“Jail?” Alan scoffed. “And what? We won’t go to jail with what you want to do?”
“A liquor store?” Gwen was almost bouncing now. “Oh-oh-oh – are we going to hold up a liquor store, and then rob a bank?” She playfully punched Alan’s arm. “If I know my Schnookums, he’ll need a drink for that!”
With the Casual Cafe looming over his shoulder, Alan gestured behind, towards the restaurant. “Schnookums, this isn’t brain science.” Guinevere looked up past his blowout, as the Checker’s sign came into focus. She gasped. “We’re going to rob Sharon?”
“Actually,” Patrick clarified, “It’ll be more like a Las Vegas skim.”
“We’re going to rob Sha-ron! We’re going to rob Sha-ron!” Gwen’s breathless excitement sounded more like, I’m going to have a ba-by! I’m going to have a ba-by! Can’t you just tell? – I’m going to have a baby!
“Gwen, you need to calm down,” Alan told her.
“Guys, we start in ten minutes,” Patrick reminded the two, glancing at his Timex. “We should really go inside.”
“Oh – tickets!” Alan remembered something. “Gwen, is my training apron still in your car?” Guinevere forced herself to breathe. “Yes, but…Dan has my car. And he used the apron to” – she caught herself midsentence – “I should probably wash it before I give it back to you.”
Alan shared a quick glance with Patrick before opening his pickup, then rummaging behind the seat. He then popped back up with a handful of slightly wrinkled tickets in his teeth, which he immediately passed over. “Will these work?”
“What’s the difference between training tickets and real tickets?” Patrick asked, setting the pile on the Cadillac’s trunk. He carefully used his palms to iron creases.
“Nothing,” Alan told him. “They’re just from a different numerical batch.”
“But they’re identical, right? They’re basically the same tickets?”
“They’re exactly the same tickets.”
“And how many do you think you have right now? In your possession, I mean?”
“Well, here, I guess about seven,” Alan said. “But I have more at home.”
“How many more?”
“Dunno. Maybe…eighty? Ninety? I bring home the extras every time I train, then just throw em’ on the pile. I just get new ones when I have a new trainee. I think those are from when I first trained you.”
“It’s the one little mess in his compulsively clean bedroom,” Guinevere said before asking, “So, where do I fit in, in this little grift?” She beamed excitedly, but she noticed the two men hesitate –
“Oh, COME ON!”
“Gwen, now listen to me,” – Alan reached for her arm, but she yanked it away. “There’s a reason for that. And it’s only temporary.” She stormed towards the building in anger. Alan lunged after her with his hand.
“Gwen, listen, Gwen! … God dammit, Gwen!” – he grabbed her waist by the apron, and violently spun her around like a dancer – slap!; he then planted his palms into her midsection, his hands moving slowly upward, passed her breasts, to her shoulders. “Listen to me!” –
- His profile resembled a shark’s, as he forced her to look at his eyes -
Gasp!
“Gwen…Schnookums…this is absolutely nothing personal. Patrick and I have only been talking about this. We haven’t actually done anything yet. And it’s like…it’s like learning to drive. You don’t just jump behind the wheel of the General Lee the moment you hit sixteen…you take a Driver’s Ed class, and start practicing a year in advance.” He paused to hammer this point.
“And that’s what I need you to do. Give Patrick and me time…to practice.”
“For a year?” she growled.
His hands still on her shoulders, Alan’s face remained perfectly still while his eyes shot to Patrick – who made a victory sign with fingers. Alan’s pupils shot back to Gwen’s own. “We’re thinking…two weeks. To iron out all the kinks.” Guinevere considered this.
He felt her shoulders soften.
“All right,” she said begrudgingly. “I’ll give you two your two weeks. But I swear to God, if you two are making money, YOU” – her finger nearly punctured Alan’s chest – “had better be nice to me!” She stormed off in a huff.
“And I’m NOT washing Dan’s cum out of your apron!”
The two men watched her head for the restaurant. Alan turned to Patrick –
“That, actually, went a lot better than I’d expected.”
* * * * *
Strike a pose!
Despite having only hit the charts a month before, Madonna’s Vogue had somehow appeared within Checker’s endless heartbeat of cheery 80s pop. The synthesized dancebeat pulsed high above the restaurant, its volume lowered just enough to accommodate the lunch clientele. Sharon circled the dining room in cream – a softer shade of cunt today – while a steady flow of servers came in and out of the kitchen, carrying trays. Watching from the side station, the great room was almost three quarters full when Alan and Patrick found the perfect moment to open Pandora’s Box.
“That’s the one,” Patrick whispered to Alan. “They’re in your section. Do you have the ticket ready?” Alan nodded, and then took a nervous breath.
Lights, camera…
Action!
* * * * *
Twirling an empty beverage tray, Alan cheerfully approached a table of three: perky plump wife, dad in a work shirt, and a freckle-faced daughter who was reading a chapter book. The three looked up when Alan greeted the table, using the tray’s backside as a writing surface –
“Hey guys. I’m Alan. Welcome to Checker’s. I’ll be your server today.”
Patrick watched from a distance as Alan took their drink order. Returning to the side station, Alan resembled a bowler with his back to a strike; Patrick’s fingers held out three freshly poured Cokes, and Alan switched trays with him in a single, fast motion, his approaching chest instantly becoming his departing backside.
“Folks, forgive me for saying so, but our burgers are just incredible. They’re great for lunch and they come with fries. And for the little lady?” – he chuckled – “Well, I’ll bet you’d really like those tasty chicken fingers, wouldn’t you?”
From a distance, the four laughed together like an episode of Full House.
And Patrick watched them all like a cat.
“Okay folks, you guys just sit back, relax, and enjoy yourselves. Have some quality family time. And hey, little sport” – Alan pointed at the young girl’s book – “don’t read too much, or you’ll spoil your appetite!”
More canned laughter.
The waiter’s plastic smile vanished the nanosecond he left the table. Grabbing a few empty glasses for appearance, Patrick followed him into the kitchen.
* * * * *
Strike a pose!
“WALKING IN…KID TENDER!”
The kitchen barely seemed real when they entered the alley, and the two executed their roles, as previously rehearsed. Patrick stood guard, filling glasses at the Coke machine, while Alan, by luck of the draw, had the honor of entering state’s evidence exhibit number one.
Two minutes passed as Alan – like a burglar trying keys in a lock – hunted and pecked out of sheer and total nervousness, the printer finally humming when he inserted the ticket. A full two minutes after that, the small transaction was voided, and the Ethernet cable had been replaced.
“We have to get a lot faster than that,” Patrick whispered.
“How many times are you going to empty and refill those glasses?” Jackie demanded loudly, behind. Both Alan and Patrick spun around in unison. “How long have you been standing there?” Patrick asked, a bit too quickly.
“For hours!” Jackie complained. “And you” – she laughed at Alan – “What happened? Did you forget how to use the damn register?” All three chuckled, but Jackie really wanted an answer. Alan thought on his feet –
“It’s those fuckin’ submenus, Jackie. I’ve been here, what? Four months now? And even then, I still forget where things are sometimes.”
One beat, two beats…
“Oh – and the Coke machine is running out of syrup again.” Patrick jumped in. “That’s why I kept dumping the glasses out. The Diet Coke was weak – the mixture, I mean. I had to run the lines a bit, so the syrup could catch up and properly mix with the CO2.”
“Yeah, the mixture,” Alan added, unnecessarily.
Three beats, four beats…
Silence.
“Then what about the Sprite?”
“Huh?”
“The Sprite,” Jackie repeated, suspiciously. “I saw you dumping Sprite, too. I mean, I understand that Diet Coke is brown…and you can see brown…but how could you tell that the Sprite line was empty? The Sprite syrup is clear. How did you know it ran out?”
Gulp.
Again, she waited for plausible explanation.
“UGGGGHHH…this is DISGUSTING!” Guinevere shouted from behind everyone, causing half the kitchen to turn in her direction. Holding a glass of what was obviously pre-bussed water, she covered her mouth and launched for the hand-washing sink, where she spat as though a dentist had just cleaned her teeth. She lifted her head and yelled, “WILL SOMEBODY CHANGE THE SPRITE, PLEASE!”
The four watched Mia jump out from behind the Hobart station, then scurry into the back like a spider.
Jackie casually “hmph’d” before walking away.
Alan’s heart was in his throat. He looked at Gwen in relief, trying to dismiss the tension with a nervous joke. “Oh, please. Like that was the worst thing my Schnookums had in her mouth today.”
Crickets.
“You’re welcome,” she growled, shoving the dirty water glass into his chest before walking away – You guys are idiots.
“She’s pissed,” Alan said, “totally fuckin’ p-pissed.”
“Alan, we really need to get faster for this to work.”
“Patrick, m-m-my hands are shaking.”
“That’s just nerves. Go turn the ticket in.”
“It’s n-n-n-not n-n-n-nerves…”
“Give me that” – Patrick snatched the fake order from Alan’s fingers and ran it to the expo window. “Order in the bowl!” Bill stood back, having just finished garnishing a tray of various items. “Hey Pat, can you run this to forty-seven?”
“No, Bill…Mia can’t lift the post-mix box herself.”
Backtracking towards the prep line, Patrick grabbed Alan’s arm before he lost his shit – “Follow me, now!” He then pushed him through the back-prep kitchen, and on passed the tiny post-mix closet – where Mia scaled its big metal rack, carrying a 20lb. box of soft drink syrup; she moved like a monkey, stealing a baby.
On reaching the restroom, Patrick grabbed Alan by the apron and violently spun him around – slap!; Patrick then planted his palms into Alan’s midsection, his hands moving slowly upward, passed Alan’s pecks, to his shoulders –
- His profile resembled a shark’s, as he forced Alan to look at his eyes -
Gasp!
And then he threw Alan’s twitchy ass into the restroom, slamming the door behind them.
* * * * *
Strike a pose!
“Alan, you need to calm down…now.”
“P-P-Patrick, I think I’m having-g-g an anxiety attack-k-k…”
“Yes, Alan. Anxiety. That’s all it is. Just take deep breaths.”
“B-b-b-but I can’t breathe-e-e-e…”
“Alan, don’t be silly. You’re breathing right now.”
“P-P-Pat-t-t-t-tric-c-c-ck…”
“Alan?”
“Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa…”
“Alan, you’re spitting on me.”
“p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-…”
“Alan, seriously, if you don’t stop, I’m going to hit you.”
“-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-…”
SLAP! - Alan’s face went sideways.
Silence.
“Better?” Patrick asked.
His friend took a moment. “Yes, I think so.” He rubbed his red cheek.
“Alan, listen to me…there’s a fake ticket in play right now, and there’s no turning back from that. It’s okay if we don’t run the food to the table ourselves, but we have to get that soft copy back. That’s the only piece of evidence. Do you understand me?”
Alan paused before answering. “Yes.”
“And we also can’t stay back here anymore. We have to be on the floor, now, to keep an eye on things. From this moment forward, whenever one of us has a fake ticket in play, we always need two people on the floor – so we can cover each other’s backs. What we’re doing now works best with a partner. Right now, you need to pull yourself together and” – Patrick stopped midsentence. His friend was still shaking, and clearly in need of a few minutes alone. He sighed.
“Tell you what?” Patrick’s tone softened. “Why don’t you stay back here a few minutes? I can watch the floor. It’s only a small ticket.”
“Thanks.”
“But come back out soon, okay?”
“Yeah, sure…I will. Just give me a second.”
Patrick unlocked the door and opened it, but stopped for one last thing.
“Alan, listen…I’ve done this before, and not just at Denny’s. I know what I’m doing. And I’m good at what I do. And if you can just get through today, I promise…it gets a whole lot better. And with my previous experience, and your sense of humor, I think” – he stopped to choose his next words carefully.
“I think that the two of us can really have some fun.”
* * * * *
Strike a pose…
“Jesus, that fucking song is everywhere,” Alan complained nearly two weeks later, as Vogue had somehow infiltrated Lum’s yacht rock playlist. Lum’s was a locally owned 24/7 restaurant on Knoxville, near downtown; it was about a half step above Denny’s, partially because of its decent liver & onions, but mainly due to its close proximity to Bradley University. Its late-night clientele comprised of both student night owls and blackout alcoholics – and all lived in harmony within the soft can lighting, dark vinyl booths, and a cloud of secondhand smoke so thick, it could be seen from space.
“I remember when I was in high school – no, wait, I was in junior high,” Alan corrected himself. “And then Thriller came out. And all the sudden you couldn’t even walk through the halls because every fucking person was moonwalking. Can you guys remember that? Because, that’s what Vogue feels like now.”
“Or, Angel in the Centerfold,” Patrick added, using a menu to wave away smoke. “Remember that? That one was pretty bad, too.”
“Deer, deer, da-deer-deer-deer,” Guinevere added to the conversation half-heartedly, mimicking the J. Geils song’s hillbilly refrain. “I think I still have that 45 with the pink label.”
“Thriller was cool when it first came out,” Alan said, “but after a year of hearing Beat It every time you turned on the radio, it got really old.”
“Took a while though,” Patrick reminded him, waving smoke.
“I wasn’t a big fan of Thriller itself, though. But, we also didn’t have cable where I grew up, which meant no MTV. So, I never saw the video.”
“Really? Not even Friday Night Videos?”
“Nope. I couldn’t stay up that late.”
“You fell asleep?”
“No, I had to be in bed by ten.”
“So, you never watched Midnight Special, then?”
“Never. Not even once.”
“That’s a shame. You missed some really good” –
“WHY AM I HERE?” Guinevere shouted like the Peanuts’ Lucy, startling surrounding diners enough to make forks clatter across tables. Having achieved the desired effect, she then settled back into the booth, folding her arms. She glared at Alan. Despite the fake wooden table that separated them, he could tell that her legs were crossed.
“Should we tell her?” Patrick coughed, waving smoke.
“I’m kinda’ afraid to,” Alan admitted.
“I strongly suggest that you DO,” Gwen growled, “Cuz’ Dan’s already stood me up tonight and I’m in a foul mood.” Her angry eyes explored the innocent surrounding tables. “I wish I’d brought a machine gun.”
“Wait, what?” Alan looked surprised. “Dan stood you up? I thought he cancelled because he had to work.”
“As far as I’m concerned, that’s the same thing in my book.” Alan now realized Gwen was dressed to the nines, tonight – big hair, sexy black dress, black hose & heels (and I know what you’re thinking, but they looked nothing like Sharon’s), and lots and lots of boobs. She reminded him a bit of Melanie Griffith’s Working Girl.
“No, it’s not the same,” Alan told her. “He had to work. Wait – does Dan still have your car?”
“No.”
“Guinevere,” Patrick redirected the topic, “Alan and I have some news.”
“What?” she snapped.
“We’re ready for you now.”
“What does that mean?”
“He means, we’re ready for you now,” Alan repeated, taking her hand. “You can join the skim.”
“It’s safe now,” Patrick added, coughing.
Gwen’s eyes lit up. “Really!?”
“Really!”
“Look around, everywhere you turn is heartache…it’s everywhere that you go,” Alan sang, in tune with Vogue. “You try…everything you can to escape…those bills and debts that you owe…”
“How much will I make?” she asked excitedly. She watched the two men lock mischievous eyes. “You show her,” Patrick told Alan. “I already put mine in the ATM.”
Reaching for his wallet, Alan opened it for Gwen. Its money compartment was stuffed with over $300 in twenties. He held it open in a fan.
“Holy shit!” Gwen exclaimed.
“For a Tuesday!” Patrick laughed, clapping his hand once.
“I know, right?” she said.
Alan, wallet still fanned open, couldn’t take his eyes off the cash –
“Patrick…this is so sinful.”
Guinevere snatched the wallet from his hands.
“Hey!” Alan said –
“I want” – she removed $80 and placed it in her cleavage – “my cut.”
She threw it back.
“Bluggh-haggh!” Patrick coughed loudly, his eyes tearing up in the smoke. He stood up from the table. “Guys, I’m sorry, but I can’t take this anymore. I have to get out of here.” He threw down a five for coffee.
“No problem,” Alan said, now waving Patrick’s menu, himself. “It’s getting to me, too.”
“Same here,” Gwen said.
“I open tomorrow,” Patrick called to Alan as he headed out. “You?”
“Eleven! I’ll see you then!”
“Nite, Gwen!”
Cough, cough…!
Alan waved for the check.
“It goes without saying that you’re paying,” Guinevere informed him. He grinned, but couldn’t stop staring at her tits. She does look good tonight. “What’s your excuse?” Gwen asked, reading his mind.
“Huh?”
“The Chess King add that you’re wearing right now,” she said. He watched her eyes wander across his trendy tieless tuxedo shirt, stopping at his black leather vest, which he always wore open. Her voluptuous red lips slowly mouthed each syllable of the word “lea-ther” before Alan felt her toe against the heel of his black INXS boot. The two of them often shared an unspoken sort of Dom/sub dynamic, and unfortunately, in Alan’s case with Gwen, he wasn’t exactly the top.
“Schnookums,” he cautioned.
“Did I say that you could speak?” she asked.
When the plastic check holder arrived, Alan finger-flicked it across the table, proposing a compromise.
“How about if you and I make a deal?”
* * * * *
“STRIKE A POSE!”
Brilliant magenta spotlights sliced across the crowded dance floor, while a growing moonrise of blinding white reduced both Alan and Guinevere to silhouettes. They froze like ghosts in a photograph, keeping time with the beat, two bodies leaning opposite directions, still joined by a single hand.
CLAP! With the next bass heartbeat, Alan’s black shadow grabbed Gwen’s by its waist, violently spinning it around –
CLAP! His shape then forced its palms deep into Guinevere’s midsection, its hands creeping slowly upward, caressing her breasts, then shoulders –
CLAP! The black silhouettes now resembled two sharks in profile, each facing the other as the magenta went to red –
CLAP!
“Look around, everywhere you turn is heartache…it’s everywhere that you go…”
Night Faces was, by far, the best dance club in town, so it was busy almost every weeknight – and totally slammed on weekends. It was Peoria’s equivalent to Studio 54, an old three-story cannery, repurposed to accommodate house music. The hall’s exterior entrance had been intentionally moved upstairs, which clubbers had to climb in the weather, if they wanted access. The reasoning was brilliant; a second-story entry caused one’s first view of the dance floor to be high, like a crane shot. Even better, the only stairs descended into the heart of the club, putting people face-to-face with nine big tube-televisions, synchronized to create a single image – which, obviously tonight, displayed Madonna.
CLAP!
“This is so much FUN!” Gwen yelled to Patrick. He leaned as close to her ear as possible, so she could hear his carefully-worded reply – “YES!” The lights went white, then red again, and like the Checker’s server’s alley, it was hard not to slam into other sweaty people.
“So, C’mon…Vogue!”
Alan and Guinevere joined three hundred dancers in mimicking the new song’s distinctive hand, arm, and leg movements. And like those same three hundred dancers, neither Alan nor Guinevere had a goddamn clue what they were doing.
CLAP!
Guinevere laughed hysterically. “This is so hard!”
“Who can do this?” Alan shouted. “Nobody’s that limber!”
“My Schnookums needs to spend some time in the gym! That way he can climb on top of me and go” – she thrusted her pelvis – “Bam! Bam! Bam!”
CLAP!
“Oh my God!” Alan shouted. “From this moment on…that’s his nickname! Bam-bam! Like the Rubble’s kid on the Flintstones!”
“Who’s nickname?!”
“Dan’s!”
“You’re an asshole!”
“And you’re fucking a flesh-colored Ninja-Turtle! Can Dan even do basic math?!”
CLAP!
“Well, he did give me three orgasms yesterday, and that’s basic math! One plus two equals – FUCK!” Gwen slammed into Alan’s chest when a mullet with a beer gut staggered into her side. The mullet wore a Black Sabbath jersey, and it’s attempts at Vogue’ing resembled flailing from bees. “Watch it, asshole!” she shouted.
CLAP!
“Fate has brought us together again!” Alan shouted, taking her hand. He brought her close as something shattered on the floor behind him. He felt sudden wet on his leg.
“Ow!” she screamed.
“Wait – did I just hurt you?!”
“No! I think I just got burned by someone’s cigarette!”
Another bottle crashed. The two could now hear a scuffle. The dance was swiftly collapsing into bedlam when the lights went blue with a shift in the music. The DJ was clearly changing the mood, which felt as jarring as going from waltz to garage band.
“…It’s at times like this…the great heaven knows…that we wish we had…not so many clothes…”
Alan yelled at the DJ: “WHO follows Vogue with Adam Ant’s Strip?!” He pushed Guinevere away. “Well, this night is obviously over.” He started to leave.
“Are you kidding!?” – she yanked him back to her waist – “I love this song!” He could smell the Amaretto Stone Sours on her breath. Her face was shiny. Her bosom glistened. His will surrendered – as it always did – and their bodies locked together in an elegant ballroom pose.
“…So let’s loosen up…in a playful tease…like lovers did…through the centuries…”
The dance floor cleared in groans while an angry barback appeared with a broom & shovel, loudly dragging a Rubbermaid trashcan. Gwen laughed happily on hearing the sweep of broken bottles, but then laughed hysterically when the shovel was emptied into the big garbage bag – CREESH! The air stunk of beer and cheap cologne. The bartenders yelled “last call” to force the trolls to choose their semen depositories, and the windows facing Jefferson now flashed red and blue, with the customary arrival of police. The place now felt as magical as Airplane’s “Drambuie Bar” –
And its magic was all for Alan and Gwen, alone.
Over exaggerating each word with red lips, his Schnookums sang along to Strip, comically acting out each line to be as sleazy as possible.
“When it gets so hot at the end of the day” – Gwen flung sweat off her brow – “you may find your clothes getting in the way” – she unbuttoned his shirt – “if a pretty dress hides your true desire” – she unbuttoned her own dress – “fold it nice and slow, throw it on the fire” – she flung an imaginary Denny’s vest into the trash.
“We’re just fol-ow-ing ancient his-tor-ee, if I strip for you, will you strip for me?...”
It now felt like a camera were circling around them, as Alan and Gwen – their bodies intertwined – danced alone within the blue and white spotlights. The camera went round and round. The song went on and on. They danced and they danced with the smoldering eyes of lovers, soulmates who had found each other, perfect in every possible way –
But one.
Alan kissed her anyway.
* * * * *
The mid-summer sky glowed a deep midnight blue, with a dusting of white stars, clouds that looked like crumpled wax paper, and a bright round moon that burned hot in the chill of night, high above Peoria’s downtown skyline. Alan and Gwen were walking to their cars, but the gay man noticed that she wasn’t headed the right direction.
“Aren’t you parked over by me?” Alan asked. She nodded her head, but pointed up the street. “Yes, but, Dan’s bar is right over there.”
“Ah,” Alan realized. “Booty call.”
“Your Schnookums needs” – she yawned – “her pussy pleasured.”
“Bam-bam?”
“Bam-bam,” she repeated, smiling.
“You want me to walk with you?”
“No, it’s just up the street. But thanks.”
“See you at work then?”
“I close tomorrow,” she said.
“I mid,” he said. He remembered something. “Oh, what we talked about at Lum’s” –
“You guys can tell me tomorrow,” she said. “But I’ve been watching you two, so I’ve kinda’ figured out how it all works.”
“Okay.”
“Nite, then?”
“Nite, Gwen.”
The two walked in different directions, but stopped at the same time – and turned around together. “About the kiss,” they said in unison. She ran up to him.
“Gwen, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Oh God, I hope this doesn’t make things awkward with us. It was late, I’d been drinking, dancing to that stupid song was kinda’ fun and” –
“Alan, I love you.”
“Schnookums, I love you too” –
“No, I didn’t say Schnookums, I said Alan.” Her tone grew tender as she touched him on the cheek. “And I know that we’ll never be together…but I also know that we’ll never be apart.”
He gasped softly.
“And I know that no matter who I marry, or you marry” – she couldn’t resist – “or whoever you tie up and force to marry” –
“…We’ll always be friends. For the rest of our lives. And then with whatever life happens after that, wherever our spirits go.”
Gwen…
“Alan” – tears welled in her eyes – “I will love you until the day I die.”
Silence.
With a million stars in the twinkling Peoria night, the two came together in an embrace that lasted forever. An eternity passed before it was over, and they said their goodbyes, each going separate ways. Alan hesitated at his truck, taking one last look before he climbed inside –
She slowly faded away on the sidewalk, the moon high in the clouds above.
Until the day I die…