Read Online Closet Case (Robert Rodi Essentials) by Robert Rodi - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Rodi
Tags: Fiction - General, FIC000000, FICTION / Gay, FIC048000, Fiction / Urban Life, FIC052000, FIC011000, FICTION / Satire
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flatly.
“Only sixteen,” Lionel mumbled apologetically as he reached out and grasped his father’s hand for a perfunctory shake.
“Still, I did say seven o’clock,” the colonel insisted, accepting the greeting coldly, then withdrawing his hand to shut the door behind his son.
“Sorry, Pop,” Lionel offered, doffing his jacket and hanging it on the rack in the vestibule. “Traffic.” He tried to change the subject. “How are the rodents?”
“Brave, as always.” Two years back, the colonel had attempted to become an entrepreneur by raising chinchillas in the basement, whose pelts he had intended to sell at great profit. But once he realized he’d need a farm approximately twelve times the size of his cellar to accommodate enough livestock to win the custom of even the smallest fur manufacturer, he’d given up and kept the beast as pets, naming them all after famous generals and doting on them in his private moments.
Now he clasped his hands behind him, cradling them in the small of his back and standing with his legs wide apart, like a comic-book superhero. He didn’t look remotely comfortable, but it gave him the desired aspect of military authority. “You didn’t choose to bring a date, I see.”
Lionel ambled into the house, hoping to entice his father to follow him. “I came straight from the office, Pop.”
The colonel stepped after his son briskly, hands still at his back. “Why didn’t you call Lori?” This was a claims adjustor at Lionel’s auto insurer. He’d met her when he cracked up his Celica the summer before, and had somehow found the nerve to ask her to go with him to his cousin Hannah’s wedding (he’d felt, at the time, that he required a “beard”). He hadn’t seen her since, but the colonel had liked her on sight and, having seen his son with no other woman in the interim, had fixed on her as Lionel’s “steady,” despite Lionel’s constant protests to the contrary.
“Pop,” Lionel said as he headed for the bathroom to wash his hands, “I haven’t seen Lori in ages.”
“Would’ve been a good time to renew the acquaintance, then,” Colonel Frank insisted. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind seeing your family again. We all got on, you know.” He paused. “She did say she’d enjoy seeing the chinchillas. I recall her saying that. No prompting from me.”
Lionel sighed and shut the door, as though requiring privacy for a more personal function than hand-washing. The gambit worked; he could hear his father’s footsteps in apparent retreat.
He lathered up his hands. The lavender-scented soap Aunt Ramona always bought called up a flood of memories (chiefly of his father’s protests that it was “no soap for a man,” which only ensured Ramona’s loyalty to it till the crack of doom). He ran his filmy hands over his face, then splashed himself clean and toweled down. He felt refreshed, almost invigorated.
He took a gulp of air, straightened his spine, then opened the door and headed for the kitchen, where the family ate on most nights (the dining room being reserved for holidays). Aunt Ramona, tall and unwieldy and with a wall of irregular, multi-hued teeth that looked like the Chicago skyline at dusk, hopped up from her chair and gave him a big kiss. “Honey,” she cooed, “how wonderful of, how wonderful of you to come.” Aunt Ramona had an annoying habit of starting a sentence over after only having gotten a few words into it; she’d always done so, but Lionel suspected she actually began cultivating it once she figured out how much it grated on the colonel.
“Wouldn’t have missed it, Aunt Ramona,” he said, slipping into the chair that had been designated his since his boyhood. Enveloped in this close, untidy, enervating environment again, he felt his old adolescent anxieties stir anew. He shook his head to quiet them, then reached for the soup tureen. “Lobster bisque … that’s new for you, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh, uh- huh,” Ramona
“Only sixteen,” Lionel mumbled apologetically as he reached out and grasped his father’s hand for a perfunctory shake.
“Still, I did say seven o’clock,” the colonel insisted, accepting the greeting coldly, then withdrawing his hand to shut the door behind his son.
“Sorry, Pop,” Lionel offered, doffing his jacket and hanging it on the rack in the vestibule. “Traffic.” He tried to change the subject. “How are the rodents?”
“Brave, as always.” Two years back, the colonel had attempted to become an entrepreneur by raising chinchillas in the basement, whose pelts he had intended to sell at great profit. But once he realized he’d need a farm approximately twelve times the size of his cellar to accommodate enough livestock to win the custom of even the smallest fur manufacturer, he’d given up and kept the beast as pets, naming them all after famous generals and doting on them in his private moments.
Now he clasped his hands behind him, cradling them in the small of his back and standing with his legs wide apart, like a comic-book superhero. He didn’t look remotely comfortable, but it gave him the desired aspect of military authority. “You didn’t choose to bring a date, I see.”
Lionel ambled into the house, hoping to entice his father to follow him. “I came straight from the office, Pop.”
The colonel stepped after his son briskly, hands still at his back. “Why didn’t you call Lori?” This was a claims adjustor at Lionel’s auto insurer. He’d met her when he cracked up his Celica the summer before, and had somehow found the nerve to ask her to go with him to his cousin Hannah’s wedding (he’d felt, at the time, that he required a “beard”). He hadn’t seen her since, but the colonel had liked her on sight and, having seen his son with no other woman in the interim, had fixed on her as Lionel’s “steady,” despite Lionel’s constant protests to the contrary.
“Pop,” Lionel said as he headed for the bathroom to wash his hands, “I haven’t seen Lori in ages.”
“Would’ve been a good time to renew the acquaintance, then,” Colonel Frank insisted. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind seeing your family again. We all got on, you know.” He paused. “She did say she’d enjoy seeing the chinchillas. I recall her saying that. No prompting from me.”
Lionel sighed and shut the door, as though requiring privacy for a more personal function than hand-washing. The gambit worked; he could hear his father’s footsteps in apparent retreat.
He lathered up his hands. The lavender-scented soap Aunt Ramona always bought called up a flood of memories (chiefly of his father’s protests that it was “no soap for a man,” which only ensured Ramona’s loyalty to it till the crack of doom). He ran his filmy hands over his face, then splashed himself clean and toweled down. He felt refreshed, almost invigorated.
He took a gulp of air, straightened his spine, then opened the door and headed for the kitchen, where the family ate on most nights (the dining room being reserved for holidays). Aunt Ramona, tall and unwieldy and with a wall of irregular, multi-hued teeth that looked like the Chicago skyline at dusk, hopped up from her chair and gave him a big kiss. “Honey,” she cooed, “how wonderful of, how wonderful of you to come.” Aunt Ramona had an annoying habit of starting a sentence over after only having gotten a few words into it; she’d always done so, but Lionel suspected she actually began cultivating it once she figured out how much it grated on the colonel.
“Wouldn’t have missed it, Aunt Ramona,” he said, slipping into the chair that had been designated his since his boyhood. Enveloped in this close, untidy, enervating environment again, he felt his old adolescent anxieties stir anew. He shook his head to quiet them, then reached for the soup tureen. “Lobster bisque … that’s new for you, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh, uh- huh,” Ramona
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