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“Mm, oui,” I replied, dabbing at my chin with my napkin. “If you would be so kind, Barnaby, and take the ladies?”
“Of course, sir, it would be my pleasure,” he replied and gave the women a short nod that made them titter.
“Why don’t the men back in Flushing act so polite and foreign?” Ma asked as she stared at Barnaby with doe eyes.
“Because we ain’t foreign, Ma,” Philip responded. “I mean, we’re all Americans now. You remember that time that Cousin Imelda from over in Brooklyn started dating that guy from Camden and was trying to pass him off as some prince? Like we didn’t know he was from Jersey. You ever hear someone from Jersey talking?” he asked me. I shook my head, chewing gently on my egg. “Well, lemme tell you they got an accent. And not a hoity-toity one like you and Barnaby got. It’s like someone tying a cat’s tail into a knot. I knew right off this Joe Blow was not from over in Europe because he sounded just like any goober from Philly. Not that I got nothing against folks from Philly, but they all talk funny. Wooder. Who the hell says wooder instead of water?”
I bit back my comment about how he said water. Waw-tuh. Best to just let him finish, it was faster if he wasn’t interrupted, I was learning.
I glanced back at Barnaby, who was staring at Philip in shock at hearing his proper name being used by the scamp. I’d told my man that Philip would either slip into using his name as it was given or he would stick to nicknames as he did for his hockey buddies. Barnaby had not been amused at first but upon reflecting he had said he could accept having a nickname if it were given in love, which it was. Philip was many things, but never intentionally cruel. Well, not cruel to those he cared about. The other players he interacted with on the ice? That was a different story as they say.
The threesome burst to life then spent the next forty minutes rehashing the fake prince in that charming, if somewhat nasally, Queens accent that I was now thoroughly enraptured by. Amazing how a man could change so much in so little time. Perhaps my sails were truly open now?
***
Kissing my man goodbye in the foyer, I returned to my office as Barnaby gathered up the ladies for a day out and about. He’d been concerned that I may need to go somewhere, but I waved him off. I had no plans to step off this property for several days.
Of course, not an hour later, I got a call from Mr. Oliver Pinkman, the aide to Senator Elbert, who wished to meet me in town to discuss a recent email that I’d sent to the senator’s office concerning a waterfront revitalization project I’d been discussing with the winemakers association as well as the town council. I rubbed at my brow. Of all the days for this young man to decide to visit our little town. Still, I had begged for some time and now it looked like I would get it. I told him I would meet him at the hotel on the lake in half an hour.
Closing down my bookkeeping software, I grabbed my wallet and my driving glasses and hustled out to the garage. Barnaby would be most displeased with this turn of events, but I would be fine. Yes, sunny days were bothersome, but I was not an invalid. I’d just rest my eyes when I returned home by not firing up the desktop until after lunch. A lie that I called myself out on as soon as it had formed.
I smiled at the Cabriolet, running my fingers over the rusty fender.
“Soon, Papa, Philip and I will have her on the road soon,” I vowed and climbed into a sporty little Jaguar 420. She had not been driven in some time. The sky blue beauty was badly in need of the dust blown off her bumpers. The 420 had been Mama’s car, and Papa had not touched it once she had passed. Sitting behind the wheel, a flash of a hazy memory popped into my head. I was in the back seat and Mama was behind the wheel. Where we were, I was not sure, but there was water off to the side. Perhaps this was after our move to America, or perhaps it was back in Ambroise as we drove past a lovely lake called Étang Vialle. The memory was nothing more than a flash. Mama’s gold hair in the wind as she sang to me buckled into the back seat.
The lyrics from “Le sud” by Nino Ferrer suddenly filled my head. I’d not thought of the song for years. It laid buried in the dusty dimness of remembrances about to fade into nothingness. It took me a moment to gather myself. I sang to the tune in my head as I made the trip down to the village. I pulled into the Fill ’Er Up for gas and a slushie. Also, maybe a breakfast burrito, although I had eaten not all that long ago. Curse Philip for bringing his love of gas station cuisine into my life. I really did not mind. My waist might though over time.
After filling up the Jag and adding a bottle of octane boost to add the lead that a classic car such as this one needed to run, I entered the inside of the station, took a moment to let my eyes adjust, and then made a beeline to the ready-to-go foods counter by the register. I smiled at the slushie machine and served myself a large root beer treat. Then I went over and picked up two burritos, all neatly wrapped and waiting under a heat lamp for hungry motorists.
There was one man in line in front of me buying cigarettes and scratch-off lottery tickets. The young man behind the counter was a teenager, barely old enough to shave, and looking quite put upon by the large man purchasing several dozen scratchers.
“…lucky day today,” the man said as he studied the choices laid out before him. I glanced down at his feet, shocked to see anyone would venture outside wearing tube socks with pale green Crocs. Of course, the cargo shorts that bared the top five inches of his hairy butt crack paired with a skimpy sleeveless shirt cut far too low on the sides—the man had severe back acne—set off the ensemble. “Finally heard from a buyer. He’s really interested in taking the property off my hands. They want to tear it down and put up a dollar store of some sort. Who knew that shitty old house Aunt Mildred left me would be worth something?! Give me four of the Rooster Riches and six of the Pirate Plunders.” The teen tore off several tickets. I rolled my eyes. Why was it that when you were in a hurry you got behind someone buying thousands of lottery tickets? “You better believe I signed on that dotted line! Now I can move down to Florida, get away from all the queers and liberals up here, and never have to feel snow on my head again. That tub falling through the floor was a godsend.”
“Yeah, a godsend,” the clerk droned.
That comment hit home. Not the one about queers and liberals, although it was on the mark, the one about the tub falling through a floor. That could only be Philip’s apartment. What would the odds be of two tubs taking out two homes in a town as small as this one? And this must be Bruce, the slimy landlord who had been avoiding all the texts and calls Philip had been firing at him for weeks.
I called the rotten bastard a rotten bastard in French. Bruce gave me a long look over his flabby shoulder.
“Wish they would build a wall to keep these kinds of people out of this country,” he grunted to the clerk. The teen went beet red. “I mean, if they want to speak Spanish, then stay in Mexico.”
“Pardon me,” I snapped, stepping around the cretin so that he could see my face plainly. “I was not speaking Spanish, you flaming idiot. I was speaking French. Let me speak some more for you.” I called his mother some very unsavory things, insulted his father, and called his dog a puddle-headed hound for not biting his hateful face.
Bruce, as most bigots do, slunk off when confronted. I glowered at him as he left the store.
“Dude, that was cool as shit, not going to lie. No idea what you said, but totally cool.”
The teenager and I fist bumped after I placed my purchases on the counter.
I only felt marginally better after telling off that walking pile of refuse. Now I would have to inform my lover that his home was sold, and he was dispossessed. Philip was not going to be happy when he heard this news.
So I went back to buy two burritos for him to soften the blow.
Chapter Fifteen
Phil
There was always a rush of energy when training camp began.
