Page 1 of A Straight Line

Chapter 1

L.S.P.

Uncle Harry’s and Uncle Vic’s party wasn’t even close to beginning when I had finished dressing and was standing in front of the Victorian Cheval mirror in the corner of my room. It was an antique—the mirror that is—that I had been denied permission to move out of my room. Uncle Harry had gotten up in years and didn’t feel he was steady enough on his feet to carry it himself, and due to my perceived accident-prone nature, he forbade me from moving it. He’d only ever seen me break a vase one time when I was a rambunctious six-year-old visiting over the summer with my parents. Uncle Harry didn’t know how to let things go. The mirror was solid mahogany and real glass, carved cabriole legs—an antique he’d purchased on one of his trips to London in the 80s—it was broader and taller than me and weighed nearly as much. With Uncle Harry’s Parkinson’s and selective memory about my coordination, the idea of moving the mirror presented a problem when I had first moved in with him and Uncle Vic.

Uncle Vic felt as though he was sturdy and reliable enough to move the mirror, but Uncle Harry had nixed the idea. Hernia surgery at your age? Uncle Harry had scoffed. You’d die on the table. Of course, I could use the Vicodin if you somehow managed to survive… Uncle Vic and I had tried to convince Uncle Harry that maybe Vic wouldn’t get a hernia if the two of us worked together, and Harry wouldn’t have to worry about me dropping it. That was quickly dismissed as a possibility as well. Of course, I had offered to hire movers—who were less likely to drop things—to come over and move the mirror for us. That was deemed unacceptable due to my uncle’s persnickety nature. We went back and forth for days before I realized that Uncle Harry simply liked the mirror where it was and had no intention of ever letting it be moved to another room.

After living with my uncles for a week, I was beginning to love the mirror, so I was slowly deciding it was not a hill I wanted to die upon. There were more important things in life to worry about. Besides, after a shower, it was nice to be able to escape the steamy, claustrophobic, closet-sized bathroom just off my bedroom and still be able to groom myself without merely guessing at what I was doing with my hair. Uncle Vic seemed uninterested in the fact that the mirror situation had been resolved quietly, and Uncle Harry was glad that I was no longer obsessed with getting it out of my room. We all won in the end. Of course, the desire to move the mirror—and not break it—overcame me at least five times a day. Just to prove something to myself and Uncle Harry. But I never did.

I wonder if he… The thought came from out of nowhere as I stood in front of the mirror, looking at myself, but I quickly shook it off.

Those thoughts were not welcome on the day of the party.

Sounds of the last-minute details of the party being taken care of carried down the hallway to my room, muffled only by my closed bedroom door. Though I couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying, I knew Uncle Harry and Uncle Vic were arguing. I didn’t really need to hear what they were saying, and I didn’t have to decipher the tone of the sounds coming down the hall. The two of them always argued. It was their favorite hobby and one they could continue with regardless of what age did to their physical abilities. Disagreeing about the tiniest things is a sport that even the oldest people in the world can participate in as long as they retain the ability to speak and keep at least a spark of spite.

I’m not saying that Uncle Vic and Uncle Harry fought because they had grown to hate each other after nearly fifty years of togetherness or anything like that. Some older people do crossword puzzles or watch Jeopardy! to keep their mental faculties sharp. My uncles just preferred snark and witty comebacks to trivia when it came to mental exercise. It was a game to them, the arguing. One of them would express an opinion about the way something should be done, and the other took the opposition, even if they didn’t think it was correct. Even if they didn’t couldn’t care less about how things were being done. In the end, it didn’t even matter who ended up being right. The winner was determined by who was feisty enough to see the fight through to the bitter end without giving up, or which one of them came up with the most devastating insult. Ultimately, they’d laugh, kiss (disgusting), and carry on with their day.

Until the next opportunity to fight presented itself. Most likely over how to load the dishwasher or organize the fridge door.

Condiments go in the door; milk goes on the top shelf!

As I stood there and looked in the mirror, I couldn’t help but wonder what I was getting myself into with the party. Being surrounded by hundreds of my uncles’ friends all evening, making small talk with people I didn’t know, trying to be as witty as my uncles—it sounded like a nightmare. Actually, it just doesn’t sound like me. I can’t carry a drink around making polite, interesting conversation without looking like anything but a party crasher, so being witty is way out of my skill set.

In the mirror, I saw myself for what I was—an introverted hot mess with no fashion sense and a rapidly developing ulcer due to the cyclic thoughts about all of the people coming to the party. I did my best to make myself look presentable in front of the mirror, straightening my collar, running my fingers through my hair to make it do what it was supposed to, and making sure all of my buttons aligned. Uncle Harry’s voice was traveling down the hall outside of my room, working its way to the front door as I shifted my glasses on my face, hoping they were straight so that I didn’t look insane to the guests.

“I told that bitch five o’clock, Victor!” Uncle Harry was hissing as he looked down the hallway towards the kitchen when he opened my door. “I’m old, but I can still read a clock!”

Uncle Harry’s angry expression melted away instantly, as though he had never been mad, and a smile alighted on his face when he turned to look at me.

“Getting ready for the party, darling?” He cooed, his head wobbling slightly on his shoulders, thanks to his Parkinson’s. “We’re just having a bit of trouble with the caterer.”

“Ah,” I said. “I was wondering which bitch you were referencing.”

“There are so many.” He sighed, his hand relaxing on the doorknob. “So? Party?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I shrugged as I turned to present myself.

Uncle Harry’s face dropped, and his hand fell from the doorknob.

“You’re not wearing that?” He brought a hand to his mouth dramatically.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I asked.

I turned back to the mirror to inspect my jeans and long-sleeve button-down. What had I done to make Uncle Harry react in horror? Had I spilled something on myself? Did he think blue-on-blue was a wrong choice? Was it that I had rolled up my sleeves? My kicks were brand new, so he couldn’t possibly have found offense with them.

“Russ,” Uncle Harry asked from behind me, “why would you do this to yourself?”

“Do what?” I threw my hands up. “What’s wrong?”

“There will be no fewer than a dozen vicious old queens at this party.” He retorted. “It’s as if you want to be read to filth.”

“I know what vicious old queens do, Harry.” I laughed. “I live with two of them. They usually just pick on each other and talk about everyone else behind their backs. I’m good.”

“Well,” He waved a dismissive hand before setting it back on the doorknob, “your Uncle Vic and I love you, so we save our bile for each other. Tonight will be different. Many of the people you’ll be around tonight don’t know you well enough to love you. Aside from vicious old queens, there will be some young men you might want to actually show interest. Maybe a different shirt—"

“Harry.” I stopped him. “This shirt is fine.”

“What of the lesbians?” Harry clutched his other hand to his chest. “They may mistake you for one of their own. Denim on denim? Darling, you’re either a lesbian or Jo from The Facts of Life. Which is basically the same thing, I suppose, but—”