disappointment.
TATE found a job at a local bar almost immediately after they
moved. It wasn‟t a gay bar, but it wasn‟t a redneck bar either, and it
was small enough that pretty soon they had him serving drinks and
then pouring drinks and „bar backing‟ was no longer his profession.
As he‟d told Brian, it was really all sort of the same thing, but it just
sounded cooler to say „bartender‟. He liked studying drinks and
making up combinations; he wasn‟t big on drinking, per se, but
then, he‟d noticed most of the bartenders didn‟t like to drink for
more than just taste. It was like they went to a school of object
lessons, and Tate, who had fallen asleep as a child on a whiskey-
soaked blanket and woken up a freakshow of scars, didn‟t have to
be told twice.
So Tate had a job, but he was used to working and going to
school, and even though he helped Brian set up the gallery at first,
his normal butterfly mind was making him bored.
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
53
He‟d been walking to the gallery after work one night when he
saw a flier stapled to a telephone pole. It was asking for volunteers
at a craft fair for foster kids.
He ran the flier into Brian, babbling incoherently, and when
Brian finally got him calmed down, he grabbed his worry-stone,
pulled all of his brain fish into one pond, and said, “Brian, it‟s like I
looked at this and heard chimes.”
Brian looked at it and smiled gently. “Yeah. You‟ll be good at
this. What do we have to do?”
Talker smiled shyly. “Well, I guess I just show up—I know
where the place is. I‟m all on record and printed because I grew up
in the system. I guess, like it says, I just show up and help on
Thursdays. You think?”
“Absolutely. I think you‟ll be great.”
JoEllen had met him at the door when he walked in. He‟d been
diffident and uncertain about whether or not a state agency would
let someone who looked like him actually work with foster kids, but
JoEllen had spent her entire life looking beyond the shells that kids
presented to the world. She saw past Tate‟s tattoos to the scars
they hid in half a heartbeat.
“What can I do for you, baby?” she asked kindly, and for a
moment he almost forgot that he was twenty-two and grown.
“I, uhm… well, I saw this… you were looking for volunteers….”
Suddenly he started babbling. “I can help. And my boyfriend gave
me a big block of clay so they can sculpt, and some out-of-stock
pencils and pastels so they can write. Supplies. He donated
supplies. And I‟d like to help. Can I come in and help?”
JoEllen‟s warm brown eyes lit up at the word “supplies” and he
was abruptly enfolded in a warm, fleshy, matronly hug that oddly
enough reminded him of Brian‟s bird-like Aunt Lyndie for all of that.
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
54
“We would love the help. That‟s amazing. Come on in and meet the
gang. There‟s not a lot of us, but we‟re growing.”
Tate was introduced to five children, three boys and two girls,
and all he had to do to earn his stripes was sit down at the small
table meant for small people and color or sculpt or cut and paste or
thread macaroni on a string. He loved it. He loved listening to them
chatter, and he loved the outrageous things that would come out of
their mouths, and he loved the fact that all he had to do to be loved
by them was to show up once (and then twice and then three times)
a week and be kind.
JoEllen was right, too—he was not the only volunteer, and
soon he was on a first name basis with an assortment of women,
mothers or grandmothers or graduates of the foster care system
themselves, who gathered just to sit down and play with children
and make them feel important.
It made Tate feel like king of the entire freakin‟ world, and it
made Brian incredibly proud of him. Talker knew because Brian told
him so nearly every day.
Of course, even the best teachers have favorites,
TATE found a job at a local bar almost immediately after they
moved. It wasn‟t a gay bar, but it wasn‟t a redneck bar either, and it
was small enough that pretty soon they had him serving drinks and
then pouring drinks and „bar backing‟ was no longer his profession.
As he‟d told Brian, it was really all sort of the same thing, but it just
sounded cooler to say „bartender‟. He liked studying drinks and
making up combinations; he wasn‟t big on drinking, per se, but
then, he‟d noticed most of the bartenders didn‟t like to drink for
more than just taste. It was like they went to a school of object
lessons, and Tate, who had fallen asleep as a child on a whiskey-
soaked blanket and woken up a freakshow of scars, didn‟t have to
be told twice.
So Tate had a job, but he was used to working and going to
school, and even though he helped Brian set up the gallery at first,
his normal butterfly mind was making him bored.
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
53
He‟d been walking to the gallery after work one night when he
saw a flier stapled to a telephone pole. It was asking for volunteers
at a craft fair for foster kids.
He ran the flier into Brian, babbling incoherently, and when
Brian finally got him calmed down, he grabbed his worry-stone,
pulled all of his brain fish into one pond, and said, “Brian, it‟s like I
looked at this and heard chimes.”
Brian looked at it and smiled gently. “Yeah. You‟ll be good at
this. What do we have to do?”
Talker smiled shyly. “Well, I guess I just show up—I know
where the place is. I‟m all on record and printed because I grew up
in the system. I guess, like it says, I just show up and help on
Thursdays. You think?”
“Absolutely. I think you‟ll be great.”
JoEllen had met him at the door when he walked in. He‟d been
diffident and uncertain about whether or not a state agency would
let someone who looked like him actually work with foster kids, but
JoEllen had spent her entire life looking beyond the shells that kids
presented to the world. She saw past Tate‟s tattoos to the scars
they hid in half a heartbeat.
“What can I do for you, baby?” she asked kindly, and for a
moment he almost forgot that he was twenty-two and grown.
“I, uhm… well, I saw this… you were looking for volunteers….”
Suddenly he started babbling. “I can help. And my boyfriend gave
me a big block of clay so they can sculpt, and some out-of-stock
pencils and pastels so they can write. Supplies. He donated
supplies. And I‟d like to help. Can I come in and help?”
JoEllen‟s warm brown eyes lit up at the word “supplies” and he
was abruptly enfolded in a warm, fleshy, matronly hug that oddly
enough reminded him of Brian‟s bird-like Aunt Lyndie for all of that.
Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
54
“We would love the help. That‟s amazing. Come on in and meet the
gang. There‟s not a lot of us, but we‟re growing.”
Tate was introduced to five children, three boys and two girls,
and all he had to do to earn his stripes was sit down at the small
table meant for small people and color or sculpt or cut and paste or
thread macaroni on a string. He loved it. He loved listening to them
chatter, and he loved the outrageous things that would come out of
their mouths, and he loved the fact that all he had to do to be loved
by them was to show up once (and then twice and then three times)
a week and be kind.
JoEllen was right, too—he was not the only volunteer, and
soon he was on a first name basis with an assortment of women,
mothers or grandmothers or graduates of the foster care system
themselves, who gathered just to sit down and play with children
and make them feel important.
It made Tate feel like king of the entire freakin‟ world, and it
made Brian incredibly proud of him. Talker knew because Brian told
him so nearly every day.
Of course, even the best teachers have favorites,
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