morning as an old virgin!”
“Well, you’d be cranky, too, Frankie, if you had been wakened from a sound sleep by an obscene and threatening phone call!”
“What do you mean if ?” Frank loudly demanded, swiveling his head a full ninety degrees to stare with mock disbelief at Stephan. “And exactly where do you think I was when that piece of slime phoned? Sailboating off Marblehead harbor? Or maybe snorkeling in the Cayman Islands?”
Stephan’s lower lip pouted out, giving him a cross little-boy look. “Yeah, but you went right back to sleep, and I didn’t!”
Frank shook his head slowly. “Relax, Stevie,” he said soothingly. “We just can’t take the Andy Harrises of this world too seriously. It reminds me of the summer I visited my grandparents on their farm not far from Richmond, Virginia.”
Stephan looked quizzical. “These harassments remind you of your visit to the farm? Pardon me, and not to be nosy, but did I miss something?”
Without paying the slightest attention to his partner’s skepticism Frank explained. “As my grandfather and I tramped across the cow pasture, I found myself skipping to the right,jumping to the left, or sometimes merely hopping over piles of manure. All the while Poppy never deviated a millimeter from his straight-line destination.
“By the time we reached the barn, I had inches more manure on my shoes than Poppy. And while he appeared cool and composed, I had enough sweat rolling down my face to water the vegetable garden. When I asked why that was so, he said something that I knew I’d always remember.”
“What was that?” asked Stephan, finally engaged.
Frank closed his eyes while rubbing across the deepening lines in his high forehead. “‘Son,’ he told me, ‘it never does much good to go hopping and skipping just to avoid a little cow dung ’cause there’s far too much shit and far too many shitheads in this world for you to avoid them! So my advice to you is to always act like a man and go marching on through.’”
Frank’s laugh was deep and rich and every bit as contagious as a case of childhood measles. So contagious, in fact, that in spite of himself Stephan caught it, too.
Frank expertly maneuvered the oversized vehicle into a vacant space in a downtown alleyway. As the men hiked up the narrow, picturesque business street that wound up the mountain, they passed the Ozark Craft Shop, The Two Dumb Dames Fudge Factory, Beau’s Leatherworks, Country Cuzzin Quilts, and Gazebo Books. As they walked past Josie’s Authentic Mexican Restaurant, they heard someone calling their names.
“Frankie! Stevie! How come you handsome dudes don’t come see Josie no more?” shouted out the well-into-middle-age buxom owner, Josie Fernandez Campbell Wicksham O’Brien. “What’s the matter, don’t you all love me no more?”
As they peered at the woman who leaned languidly against the restaurant’s front door, Frank grinned. “Oh, Josie, heart of my heart, are you kidding me? Stevie and I had burritos at your place Thursday.”
The cafe owner vigorously shook her head, allowing her freedom-loving hair to bounce off in all conceivable directions. “What good does that do me? I don’t want to just cook for you. I want to see you, too—sit with you for a spell and tell you about all the many loves of my life. What you think, old women don’t like to look at pretty people? That what you think?”
Stephan smiled a genuine, although ever-so-slightly embarrassed smile, while Frank, with a knowing look in his eye, called back, “Josie honey, you’re going to be many things, but you’re never going to be old, I can promise you that ’cause lady, you’re the real thing—you’ve got that certain ... spark.”
“Spark, is it?” Josie retorted, throwing her hands against her wide waist. “Too bad you fellows weren’t around here thirty-five or forty years ago, back when I was young. You think I couldn’t spark your interest? Light your fires?
“Well, you’d be cranky, too, Frankie, if you had been wakened from a sound sleep by an obscene and threatening phone call!”
“What do you mean if ?” Frank loudly demanded, swiveling his head a full ninety degrees to stare with mock disbelief at Stephan. “And exactly where do you think I was when that piece of slime phoned? Sailboating off Marblehead harbor? Or maybe snorkeling in the Cayman Islands?”
Stephan’s lower lip pouted out, giving him a cross little-boy look. “Yeah, but you went right back to sleep, and I didn’t!”
Frank shook his head slowly. “Relax, Stevie,” he said soothingly. “We just can’t take the Andy Harrises of this world too seriously. It reminds me of the summer I visited my grandparents on their farm not far from Richmond, Virginia.”
Stephan looked quizzical. “These harassments remind you of your visit to the farm? Pardon me, and not to be nosy, but did I miss something?”
Without paying the slightest attention to his partner’s skepticism Frank explained. “As my grandfather and I tramped across the cow pasture, I found myself skipping to the right,jumping to the left, or sometimes merely hopping over piles of manure. All the while Poppy never deviated a millimeter from his straight-line destination.
“By the time we reached the barn, I had inches more manure on my shoes than Poppy. And while he appeared cool and composed, I had enough sweat rolling down my face to water the vegetable garden. When I asked why that was so, he said something that I knew I’d always remember.”
“What was that?” asked Stephan, finally engaged.
Frank closed his eyes while rubbing across the deepening lines in his high forehead. “‘Son,’ he told me, ‘it never does much good to go hopping and skipping just to avoid a little cow dung ’cause there’s far too much shit and far too many shitheads in this world for you to avoid them! So my advice to you is to always act like a man and go marching on through.’”
Frank’s laugh was deep and rich and every bit as contagious as a case of childhood measles. So contagious, in fact, that in spite of himself Stephan caught it, too.
Frank expertly maneuvered the oversized vehicle into a vacant space in a downtown alleyway. As the men hiked up the narrow, picturesque business street that wound up the mountain, they passed the Ozark Craft Shop, The Two Dumb Dames Fudge Factory, Beau’s Leatherworks, Country Cuzzin Quilts, and Gazebo Books. As they walked past Josie’s Authentic Mexican Restaurant, they heard someone calling their names.
“Frankie! Stevie! How come you handsome dudes don’t come see Josie no more?” shouted out the well-into-middle-age buxom owner, Josie Fernandez Campbell Wicksham O’Brien. “What’s the matter, don’t you all love me no more?”
As they peered at the woman who leaned languidly against the restaurant’s front door, Frank grinned. “Oh, Josie, heart of my heart, are you kidding me? Stevie and I had burritos at your place Thursday.”
The cafe owner vigorously shook her head, allowing her freedom-loving hair to bounce off in all conceivable directions. “What good does that do me? I don’t want to just cook for you. I want to see you, too—sit with you for a spell and tell you about all the many loves of my life. What you think, old women don’t like to look at pretty people? That what you think?”
Stephan smiled a genuine, although ever-so-slightly embarrassed smile, while Frank, with a knowing look in his eye, called back, “Josie honey, you’re going to be many things, but you’re never going to be old, I can promise you that ’cause lady, you’re the real thing—you’ve got that certain ... spark.”
“Spark, is it?” Josie retorted, throwing her hands against her wide waist. “Too bad you fellows weren’t around here thirty-five or forty years ago, back when I was young. You think I couldn’t spark your interest? Light your fires?
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