hosey
Ryan B. Richey

The Trial

The courtroom—empty as the day they married, except for two lawyers, two ex-lovers, a local gas station owner presiding, and one uptight stenographer.  Susie with home field advantage.  Her guy, Ed, asks Dad if he is still gay.  The discount machine representing Dad objects on cue, halfheartedly declares, “What does that have to do with this case?’  Ed informs us it has everything to do with this case.  Before Judge can gavel, Dad pipes up, “I’m gay, and I’m proud of it!”

Every other weekend

Instead I went over to Meemie’s every other weekend where the Beefaroni carpet's unknown terrain led to hidden treasures such as the Dorito’s bag/vomit receptacle stowed away beneath Robin’s nest.  We would add our own concoction consisting of one part horseradish sauce, two parts lemon juice, leftover chili, and a dash of shaving cream to the mix.  Microwave on high for five minutes making six servings.

The dresser drawer of two thousand pennies financed these operations.  When resources dipped we held impromptu yard sales bringing in needed revenue. Popcorn and mystery items in brown paper bags sold steadily.

Meemie’s Sugar Dumplings

Sliced through Meemie’s parlor squeezed by Uncle Robin’s ivory hands.
He’s pink-faced and simmering.  We pick his back pocket taking a big red comb while poking him in the rear with one of Meemie’s candlestick holders. “Stop it, Robin!” “They’re just kids.”  

Quit limping your wrist and playing with your sister’s hair.  You better catch the damn ball.  Don’t be like your Dad picking dandelions out in right field. You fainted out there once.

Wrap us up in blankets.  Put on Golden Girls.  Prepare frozen pizzas.  “Kiss me, Miss Piggy.  I am Kermit the Frog. Slobber all over my face.”  I have to keep reminding we’re not supposed to like this.  My last name is Hutson not Richey. Or is it Richey-Hutson?  I bet they’ll never want me back if I cover their walls in baby powder.  I poop in a cookie tin and sling it at their house.

Dad,
Me and Hee love going to Meemie’s every other weekend to see you, even though we’re supposed to hate it.  When you and Bruce hold hands and kiss at the zoo we’re told to be disgusted.  We’re not allowed to say you were gay at school because of the eighty’s AID's scare.  My behavior is always in question.

We love you even more when we go to your house.  Intercourse, PA, postcard on your refrigerator with Gay Pig and Chef Pig magnet collages.  Polaroid of me and Abigail pushing up our noses and sticking out our tongues.  Dwight D. Eisenhower in drag supported by more pig magnets.  Always food and drink inside.  Nuts and crispy Hot Pockets.  Bags of Pork Rinds and Cheese Doodles.  Using your front teeth to shave off cheese layered fingers.  Licking off the orange stain.  Have a cold Ding Dong.  But please don’t give any to Peetey, because he is already a giant loaf of bread resting on tiny knobs.

(A lazy kitty litter pile accumulated enough mass over ten years to reach the roof of the backyard shed creating a ramp for Peetey and Waxcat.  For me, too.)

Polish junk food off with a tall two-liter of non-caffeinated Diet Rite.  Drink right out of the bottle if you want.  Maybe sneak one of Bruce’s Milwaukee Best Lights and pound it before anyone else notices.  Hydrocodone prescription from an old dentist visit is in the cabinet, middle shelf.  Slide a long Doral out of the soft pack found in the kitchen junk drawer.  Dad, I got to take a dump.

Sweetbriar’s bathroom

Pee-Wee Herman sits behind me in his fake potted plants above the toilet. His gray suit is browning, yellowing from dust, manhandling, and smoking in the bathroom closet.  We go in there to smoke when there is company.  No one does it in front of each other.  George Michael is in there too.  He is the shower curtain and the light switch cover.  The light switch cover is from the “I Want Your Sex” era.  Light reflects off of his aviators, perfectly lined five o’clock shadow, leather, stonewashed jeans, and white tee shirt.  He could be posing on a motorcycle.  On the shower curtain Wham! George Michael is facing Pee- wee and me.  Pee-wee’s cheeks blush red against his pasty white face. Wham! George in pink and white.  Tight short shorts riding up his embarrassingly sweaty tanned greasy hairy legs.  So nasty in there, the sink covered by what looks like to be dried shaving cream.  Bruce’s leather S&M suit hanging over the back of the door amongst the musty damp towels.

I Miss You Bruce

Bruce Cain’s always absent.  He’s probably sitting cross-legged by his computer wearing my Dad’s robe with holey loafers.  Ellen is on in the background being sassy and wholesome.  Long Dorals kissed repeatedly, leisurely.  Drinking, somehow never seen.  Embarrassed of me seeing his chiseled tan turkey thong riding ass wallpaper.

Dear Bruce,
I never minded.  Besides your bathroom blows that wallpaper away.
Love,
Ryan

A father and son reunion

Dad and I ride merrily together through dusty gravel roads towards the dump.
Sluggish Gnaw Bone; Indiana U-Haul chock-full of bags bulging with kitty litter.  Poophead peers out a doily-laced window as we near the entrance, his doll house trailer precariously perched atop the walls of dump’s front gate. We wait in the cab while Poophead descends the gate’s rusty rails. Simultaneously we sing at the top of our lungs to the tune of the Glowworm jingle:

Poophead, Poophead
I am telling you true.
Poophead, Poophead
Poophead I love you.

Cat litter not allowed

Kitty litter is not allowed at the dump?  Choking nervous attempts at small talk.  I love, LOVE, your house!  Enhancing the contraband-carrying vibrations.

Open up the back, please.  Solid wall of black plastic stretching to Mom’s Attic.

Poophead pokes around.  The burning ammonia fumes blanket him prematurely ending the investigation.  Given clearance, we go dump our load off the highest cliff we can find.

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