Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (120 page)

only a pink tutu, pink-and-

white striped socks, and

decoration.

rubber-toed black sneakers.

Nobody in the Pride Parade seemed to mind

He holds a cigarette, one

knee sports a Band-Aid, and

anything the Fairy Godfather did. Of course not.

perched on his head is a

He was blessing the marchers with good fortune

rhinestone tiara.]

and dusting them with good cheer. He belonged

Sincerely,

in the celebration as much as its principle did.

Anne

Franklin had been watching and keeping

pace with him along the parade route, wending

through the crowds on the sidewalk. A feeling

of déjà vu struck him. He’d followed this

comely man before, many times, although the

man’s clothing had never been quite so unusual.

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 732

Under these circumstances, following him wasn’t as easy. The Fairy

Godfather was a force as much as a presence, a ball of energy or strain

of music zigzagging crazily through a torrent of people.

Then . . . the Fairy Godfather pulled up short. Someone or

something had apparently caught his attention. As Franklin stopped

too, he nearly ricocheted off a small group of tourists, their cameras

raised and their expressions ever-changing. They apparently weren’t

used to parades like this one.

The Fairy Godfather bounded forward once more. “Ricky!” he

called out, thrusting and waving his wand.

The air was so humid, Franklin fancied the star’s peaks could

puncture it and release a spray of moisture. He watched the Fairy

Godfather curiously as he also resumed his hurried pace.

“Ricky, wait!”

Just ahead of Franklin on the sidewalk, a man with a cap of blond

hair and long, lean muscles turned toward the Fairy Godfather’s voice.

He appeared to be walking with another man, both of them dressed in

summery, collegiate-looking clothing, their shirts open to the middle

of their chests.

A scowl darkened Ricky’s smooth, rosy-cheeked face. “Oh,

Christ,” he grumbled before raising his voice to address his pursuer.

“It’s over! Leave me alone, starting now!”

That’s when the Fairy Godfather’s tiara slid forward on his shorn

head. That’s when he became a victim of his desperate, ebullient

hope. With his attention focused on a man who clearly didn’t want his

attention, he plowed into the curb with one white-rubber toe of his

black sneakers.

Ricky rolled his eyes and said to his companion, “Let’s get out of

here,” as the Fairy Godfather’s momentum pitched him toward a

concrete sidewalk planter.

Multicolored pansies seemed to turn up their faces and watch with

amusement as the Fairy Godfather’s left knee made painful contact

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 733

with their home. One red-striped sock slid down his calf to his ankle.

He managed to keep a grip on both his wand and the silver bag he’d

been carrying, his fists tightening around the handles of both.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he grated with a backward hop on each “shit.”

Franklin’s eyebrows rose when he heard the string of expletives.

He’d been prepared for some changes in the Fairy Godfather, but

bursts of vulgarity still gave him a mild shock, like picking up a

crystal bell and hearing it honk like a goose.

Wincing, the Fairy Godfather bent his left leg and studied the raw

abrasion at the top of his knee. He laid three fingertips against it, held

them in place for three seconds, and lifted them. A puzzled frown

came over his face. He repeated the process . . . and looked more

displeased than puzzled. He covered the injury with the heel of his

hand, the palm of his hand, the side of his hand. Abandoning these

efforts, he finally rolled his head back and clamped a hand over his

eyes.

Franklin dashed up to him. “Here,” he said, fishing in one of the

pockets of his cargo shorts. “I have something for that.” He pulled out

a plastic bandage that matched the colorful tattoo on the Fairy

Godfather’s arm.

“I shouldn’t need it,” the Fairy Godfather murmured dismally as

Franklin knelt on the pavement in front of him. “It should’ve gone

away. It should’ve healed. I don’t why I couldn’t make it go away. Oh

fuck me, I do know.” Flustered and distracted, he seemed to be talking

more to himself than to the young man who’d come to his aid.

Franklin said nothing, just carefully applied the bandage. As he

smoothed the adhesive strips with his thumbs, he let his fingers stray

to both sides and glide over the Fairy Godfather’s skin. It was tan and

taut over his well-shaped legs. Sighing, Franklin was tempted to sneak

a glance beneath that red tulle tutu, which was tantalizingly short, but

his sense of decency prevailed.

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He got little for his kindness—a perfunctory “thanks” and barely a

look—but he understood and forgave. The Fairy Godfather wasn’t in

a very good place right now. Ricky had scorned him, a planter had

scuffed him, and his magic had sputtered and died.

The Fairy Godfather’s humiliation was a sorry sight, like a scrap

of fog creeping over the bright street and, for some moments,

dimming it.

Franklin’s heart stitched in sympathy. He let the Fairy Godfather

slouch away, confident they’d meet again.

****

red tutu, striped socks, and arm tattoo were as difficult to miss as a

neon rainbow flag. Shuffling through a flotsam of confetti and

feathers and crumpled paper cups, Franklin retraced the parade route

after the parade had ended. Soon, lamp posts bloomed with light.

Parade goers who’d turned into partiers, or partiers who’d never

attended the parade, swept down the sidewalks. Franklin looked past

them. Finally, he glimpsed a lone, woebegone figure in a narrow side-

street, more an alley than a byway. Its only illumination came from

yellowish bulbs centered above mysterious, recessed doorways.

The Fairy Godfather sat on a low stoop, drinking from an

emerald-green bottle with a stag head on its label. His wand was

tucked in the silver bag, which sat between his bent legs. His sock was

still down. An unlit cigarette dangled from the fingers of his left hand.

Franklin smiled wanly.
My star. Yes, you’ll require some work
.

The world-weary Fairy Godfather needed to have his rough edges

buffed, but Franklin welcomed the challenge.

He approached the stoop and stood in front of it, his stomach

fluttering.

The Fairy Godfather glanced up but said nothing. Two half-moons

of green hung beneath his heavy eyelids. They matched the color of

the bottle’s glass.

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He took a drink but remained sealed in his bubble of silence.

“Hi,” said Franklin.

An eternity seemed to pass.

“Sly.”

Befuddled, Franklin leaned forward. “I beg your pardon?”

“That’s my name. For now. Short for ‘Sylvester’.”

“Oh! Well, you can call me Franklin. Or Frankie. For now.”

Somewhat encouraged, he sank to the stoop directly across the narrow

lane. “Do you like rhymes?”

“Sometimes.” Sly tipped the bottle to his lips and drank.

The stag on the label seemed to cock its head and give Franklin a

cool, appraising look. He tilted his head to stare back.
Jägermeister

read the label. Master of the Hunt. Franklin smiled. That’s rather what

he
was. Temporarily, anyway.

“You’re a fairy,” he said.

Sly lowered the bottle and uncurled a finger to point at Franklin.

“I’m a very
fairy
fairy, a fey fae.” Within seconds his dry humor blew

away, and he muttered, “Twinkle fucking twinkle.”

“Why are you brooding?
Are
you brooding?” Franklin suspected

that was the case, judging by Sly’s posture and the fact he’d taken

refuge in an alley as well as an alcoholic beverage. He didn’t seem

inclined to be loquacious. Franklin would have to draw him out.

For the first time, Sly looked at Franklin, really looked at him.

Studied him, actually, through narrowed eyes. “Aren’t you the kid

who gave me the bandage?”

“Yes. But I’m not a kid.”

Sly skeptically lifted one eyebrow.

“I’m not.”

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Now Sly scanned him from head to foot. Franklin held his breath.

“Maybe you’re not,” Sly said quietly. “You
are
awfully cute, though.”

Franklin blushed. “Thank you. And I think you’re very

handsome.”

Sly glanced down at his body and sputtered into laughter. He sank

into himself again, into his sad, sullen introspection.

“Would you feel better if you talked about it?” Franklin asked

timorously.

“Huh? Talked about what?”

“Whatever it is that’s bothering you. I’m a very good listener.”

A soft slosh and gurgle as Sly poured more liquid oblivion down

his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You

wouldn’t believe me.”

“You’d be surprised what I’m capable of believing.”

Brows drawn, Sly raised his right arm, the elbow of which was

propped on his knee, and briefly rested his head against the bottle. He

considered for a moment as he regarded Franklin. It looked as if he

and the stag were posing for a portrait, their heads resting together—

although the antlers rather ruined the effect.

Franklin didn’t pressure Sly. He waited.

Three men suddenly appeared at the entrance to the lane.

Snickering and sneering, they didn’t look like the type of people

who’d participate in a Pride Parade. Franklin watched warily as one of

them reached into his jeans pocket.

“Hey, Princess,” he shouted, “go buy yourself some big-boy

pants!” Coins flew from his hand and landed with a series of dainty

clinks around Sly’s big black sneakers. The synthetic rubber that ran

around their soles looked like automobile bumpers.

Sly snatched up a penny and hurled it back at his tormenter. “Take

a hike to the nearest toilet, numb nuts! You’re the load your mama

Don’t Read in the Closet – volume four 737

should’ve swallowed!” He flipped up his tutu, grabbed his crotch, and

pumped his hand up and down.

Franklin’s eyes rounded. He gaped at Sly as the men moved on,

hooting with laughter and slinging slurs. He hadn’t expected
this
kind

of behavior. But even more unsettling was the tingly sensation that

overspread his body as he imagined what lay within Sly’s clutching

fingers.

Sly did a small double-take when noticed the look on Franklin’s

face. His anger visibly drained away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Here you

are giving me a shoulder to cry on, and I go and pitch a hissy fit.”

“A what?”

“Hissy fit. Haven’t you ever heard that term?”

Franklin shook his head. “No.” He wondered if it was in the book

of contemporary English slang he carried in his largest pocket. It

appeared there were many things he’d never heard. Or seen. He had a

lot to learn. “So . . . tell me what’s wrong. Aside from people

harassing you.”

Wonder of wonders, Sly smiled. “You know, you’re a little

strange, but I like you.”

“You’re pretty strange yourself, but I like you too.”

Sly’s smile blossomed into a grin. “Okay, try this on for size. I

really am a fairy. My name is actually Savva Pen-Erp. I was assigned

to look over the gay population of this city, kind of like a supernatural

godfather. Or mother. Combined with a sheriff. Protect and defend

and all that.”

“I take it Sylvester is the human name you adopted,” Franklin

said. And then thought
oops
, because he’d made that observation far

too casually. He should’ve at least acted amused, like he was

humoring a drunken man he happened to find attractive.

Very attractive.

Maybe wanted to bed.