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Time Flies
von: Wynn Wagner, Rik Wallin
Mystic Ways Books, 2017
ISBN: 9781938964053 , 280 Seiten
Format: ePUB
Kopierschutz: DRM
Preis: 6,69 EUR
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my four men
“If English was good enough for Jesus Christ,
it ought to be good enough for the children of Texas.”
Ma Furguson (D-TX), America’s first female governor (1875-1961)
it ought to be good enough for the children of Texas.”
Ma Furguson (D-TX), America’s first female governor (1875-1961)
The four guys in my life were walking down the street in a line. I knew they were headed my way. I also knew it wasn’t a parade because of some heroic victory or a fabulous historical event. They’d be my visitors in moments, and it was because of my rooster. Poor little fellow gets stoned on my mom’s pot seeds, and he just can’t handle his high. I’ve seen it all before, and I have no idea how to fix it.
Mr. Austin was in the middle of the line. He could afford to live anywhere because he’s so rich that other rich people say he’s insanely rich and out of their league. Mr. Austin is a straight man, but he usually has his la-di-da shoes on. If you lined up everybody in Waxahachie, Texas, in order to pick the most over-the-top gay guy, Mr. Austin would be way up on your list.
He isn’t gay. He’s elegant but never gaudy. He’s pretentious but not arrogant, and he’s over-the-top flamboyant but never garish. He plays to his own stereotype.
If Mr. Austin were a Christmas tree, it would be one of those with ornaments the same color. The lights would match the ornaments with gratuitous precision. He’s just like that, without any apology. I think he’s kind of cool.
On the far right is Kris, who’s one of my two best friends. Kristof Halász is also the smartest man I ever met. We grew up together. We’ve both lived on the same street forever, but he somehow learned an extra five languages and a species of mathematics that I know was never taught in Waxahachie schools. If Kris were gay (which he isn’t), he’d still be way out of my league. The guy could have stepped right out of a haute fashion magazine.
I fantasize about Kris. The things I could do to his body—
One of my great challenges each year was the pool party. I’d find some way to get Kris into a Speedo (fanning face). Let’s just say, the last bathing suit I saw him wear was very flattering.
Kris and I have drifted apart a little over the years. There was a time where I’d be at the Halász house, watching soccer on TV or playing chess with his sister.
Over on the left of the line is Mikka Cooper, who’s my other best friend. Mikka’s gypsy, and he takes that part of himself seriously. He loves being gypsy. He’s also a natural gymnast.
Mikka is also the consummate gay guy. He has the limpest wrist in all of Texas. Did he ever come out of the closet? First, he doesn’t even own a closet. Second, coming out of one would be redundant.
If you ever wondered about his sexual orientation, he’d be despondent because he didn’t swish enough. He hadn’t done his job, and the solution would see him make his next arm movement more luxuriant than you thought possible.
No need, though. He’s plenty chichi without prodding from anybody. No, offense, ladies… this one’s not for you.
Mikka has two tattoos: a State of Texas on a pec and a big 7 on his butt. The state of Texas is just because of hometown pride. The “7” is about the Kinsey Scale. It rates people from “0” (no attraction to the same sex, zero, zilch, diddley-squat). It goes up to the other end of being abso-fuckin’-lutely queer. That’s a six on the Kinsey scale. Mikka had a guy put a big “7” on his butt. He says it’s a Kinsey 7. He says it’s a “competitive upgrade.”
And Mikka’s cute. He’s adorable nude, which is how I know about his “7”. (Not going there right now.)
When there were several ways of doing something, Mikka picks the ostentatious route, and he didn’t care who was around to see it. That’s a problem in some parts of the world… like, Ellis County, Texas.
Bubbas and rednecks seem to send out patrols looking for gay guys to bully.
It isn’t just the hicks: gypsies are notoriously homophobic. Kids should live in a home that’s a safe place. Mikka didn’t get to do that, and that’s one of the saddest thing I ever witnessed. Without a safe place to grow up, a kid has to make his own choices. He has to figure out his own rules for interacting with other parts of society.
With Mikka being Mikka, I’m sure there were conversations in the family. That’s guesswork because I’ve never even seen his house.
I know the local gypsies live in one corner of Mr. Austin’s estate. He lets them use the property, so long as they stay put and don’t wander. If you aren’t a Traveler or Roma, they’d rather not see you near their compound.
I’ve known Mikka all my life, like Kris.
And then there’s Marengo, the fourth “guy” coming toward me.
I was sitting on the front porch, appreciating Springtime in this part of Texas. It’s my perk for living in Podunk.
Marengo is my seriously unhinged rooster. It used to be mom’s rooster. When she died, I inherited the bird.
Mr. Austin was holding Marengo as far away as possible. Writhing. Twisting. Every feather going in a different direction. Marengo wasn’t pleased.
The hens in my backyard heard or smelled their rooster, and they were all going crazy with excitement. The thing is this: the hens were giving poor Marengo the What Ever. They berated their rooster. I swear they sounded like they were laughing at him.
Without warning, Marengo pried himself loose from Mr. Austin’s arms. He shot straight up several feet and then did a series of somersaults all the way to the ground.
“Krockle krock swunkle,” Marengo screamed.
I lost it.
It was coffee-out-of-your-nose funny, and that’s what happened to me. There was iced coffee all over me, the wood swing, and the porch.
“Mind your bird, Andreas,” Mr. Austin said.
Andreas: that’s me. Andreas Monet. (ahn-DREY-uhs moh-NAY) Really close friends call me André. One kid in elementary school called me Andy. I got sent home after I reset his clock. I swear I didn’t hit him that hard, but Mom and dad are the only ones allowed to use that name. They’re both dead, so the name is history too.
“Sorry, sir,” I said, and I meant it. I’ve looked and studied and tried to figure out how Marengo gets out of the backyard chicken coop.
“Kwalker-kwalk,” Marengo said as I chased him up the driveway.
“Plukker-quantz bluck-bluck,” said the hens from the back yard. They laugh at Marengo without any mercy. He definitely has reason to want to escape the back yard. The hens don’t take him seriously. I do feel sorry for him.
“He can’t handle his pot,” Kris said. I already knew that, so Kris got my stank-eye, the one I practiced in front of a mirror.
“I know your mother’s marijuana will knock the socks off anybody,” Mr. Austin said as I reached the group and picked up the rooster. Roosters don’t actually wear socks, but I figured it was a detail best left unsaid.
“You bring the rooster,” Mikka said, “I got the dumplin’.”
As I trotted up the driveway, the hens gave Marengo twelve kinds of shit. They are relentless.
I think the rooster was trembling when I opened the coop and let him go. I think he was shaking. With Marengo, it’s hard to tell. Feathers were every which way.
He took about 3 steps and fell over. The hens hooted. Two of them walked up to kick him.
“Cockly-dwrall-cock-block,” Marengo hollered as I walked back to the street. It takes huevos to be the rooster in my mom’s brood. I don’t know if brood is a real term or something she said to confuse everyone. She was certainly capable of either.
I have no idea how he does it, but Marengo loves to get out of the coop and waddle up to the Austin estate. Marengo thinks he works there too, and he’s annoyingly conscientious about showing up on time. The gate up there is always locked, and the entire place is surrounded by a stone fence. To a chicken, it must seem impenetrable, maybe the edge of the earth.
Marengo knows how to overcome all my efforts of keeping the chickens confined, and he knows how to thwart Mr. Austin’s fortress. No hen has ever gotten out, only the rooster.
“Kwalker-kwalk,” Marengo said.
“Plukker-quantz,” said the hens. They laugh at Marengo without mercy. He definitely has reason to want to escape the back yard. The...