My Best Man by Andy Schell (unputdownable books .txt) 📗

all, the one with the precancerous tan, a slight gut, and a cigarette in her hand yells, “What’s the matter, honey? Captain got your tongue?”

“No way,” the black-rooted blond adds. “Those bitches are virgins, even the married ones.”

The third one joins back in. “The only warm pussy in her house is sitting on top of the refrigerator!”

I feel as if I’m watching some women’s prison B-flick from the 1950’ s.

The Delta gal leans over to her two flying partners and quietly whispers. Then the three of them giggle and look superior.

The cancer-tan stewardess yells, “Cunts!”

It’s like the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. The Southern belles are completely annihilated, destroyed. They grab the scatterings of their magazines and diet Cokes and leave the pool.

The Eastern stews whistle and catcall them as they leave. Then they start telling jokes. They tell every tasteless joke of the week, and then one mentions she knows a great fudge-packer joke.

I’ve never heard the term before, but of course I know fudge packer means gay. Now what do I do? I’m supposed to be this burgeoning heterosexual sitting here with people from my airline, where everyone knows I’m engaged to Amity because she announced it into a microphone. Yes, I was flattered that night of the award ceremony, and I liked being accepted by the guys for all of five minutes, but now I’m wondering if the flattery from Amity is bullshit just like these homophobic faggot jokes. “Careful,” I say, “you’re sitting with a fudge packer.”

The Eastern girls look at me with interest. They don’t know whether to respect me or rip me a new faggot asshole.

“You’re gay?” the captain says. “I thought you were engaged t”

to Amity 5tone.

“Yes,” I say confidently, “I am.”

“Engaged or gay?” the precancerous gal asks, too interested for my comfort.

“Both,” I answer matter-of-factly. “My fiancee and I love each other and understand each other. We have no secrets.”

Julie looks at me, sips her mimosa, gives me the thumbs up. “It’s a modern fucking world,” the melanoma model blurts.

The other Eastern gals decide to respect me. “I guess I won’t tell my joke then,” the original perpetrator says.

But the party soon breaks up. I’ve brought too much honesty to

the table. The Eastern gals call it a day. They grab their stuff, give us their awkward, seldom used polite respects, and leave.

Why is my truth the one that breaks up the party? If I’m a liar and pretend I’m one of them and let them make fun of people like me, everything will be jolly. But I know I’ll die a little inside if I do. I hate that other people, even my mother and father, would rather I live a straight life, so they can be more comfortable. It’s asking too much. And now look where it’s gotten me. There’s a chance I’m engaged to someone I don’t even know.

Back in Dallas, my phone is ringing as I walk through the door. I’m exhausted, my uniform stinks of cigarette smoke, it’s late evening, and I still haven’t eaten dinner. But I have a feeling it may be Nicolo, so I pick up the receiver and say hello. It’s Amity. She’s whispering and sounds desperate.

“Harry, it’s your girl. Please pick up! Hart’y, your girl needs you!”

Amity tells me to get into my car and come get her at Kim’s. She’s frantic. I say I’ll be right there. She can’t remember the exact street or even the house number. “I don’t know! I don’t know! It’s something circle or court! Just come get me!” She’s almost crying now. Is this part of some scheme? Is she polishing my ego by making me feel like the white knight who rescues his damsel in distress? Whatever the case, I’d never forgive myself if she was truly in trouble and I wasn’t there to help her. I tell her I’ll come right away.

In my dented BMW, I jettison onto the Tollway and try to flash back to when I went to the condo with Kim and Amity. Intuition tells me when to exit. Then a right. And another right. Somehow I do find it, and as I pull up, Amity comes running out, her purse falling off her shoulder. Before I can even get out, she rushes around and jumps into the passenger seat.

“Go! Just go!”

I take off. “Amity, what the hell is going on?”

She’s not crying, and she doesn’t look as if she’s been hit or anything, but her blouse is torn and she’s shaking like an epileptic. “He’s lost it, Harry. He’s been on a cocaine hinge for days.” Dies. “I don’t think he’s had anything to eat. It was becoming a bad situation, Harry. He’s threatening to kill his wife’s lawyer. He keeps waving that gun around.”

“Jesus Christ, Amity,” I gasp. “Is it loaded?”

“Hell, yes. He shot out part of the chandelier. That’s why we’ve got to get out of here before the police come.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Just a couple days, babe.” She’s grinding her teeth. She pulls the sun visor down and inspects herself in the vanity mirror, but it’s dark in the car, and even in the lighted mirror she obviously doesn’t see the coke on the side of her nose and upper lip.

I reach over and wipe it off. “A couple days? Shit, you should have gotten the hell out of there before now, Amity.”

“I’m just so sorry, babe. Kim was going to be our opportunity to so many things.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. She’s apologizing for losing our meal ticket the one with the coke problem and the gun. The one who ought to be locked in a cage at the animal shelter with a sign that says, KOREAN PUSS HOt ND And she’s insinuating that my inheritance wouldn’t be enough. She’ll have access to millions and it still won’t be enough? Is everything Julie said true? Now isn’t the time to get into it. She’s too strung out. And I’m not sure