The Beary Best Holiday Party Ever (5 page)

“It’s
boring
!” Paddy said.

“—maybe you don’t know how few decent and available places there are in Kansas City for a group of gay men to throw a big event—especially at Christmas.”

Paddy waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah. But we need something different. Something exciting. We need a place that is
so
cool that people won’t be able to help but be interested. A place that is going to make the men come from miles away.”

Ron studied the man, who was busy scraping up the last of his immense sundae.
Something to get men to come from miles away?

Was it even possible?

He had to admit the thought made his heart race. He really did want to turn the Heartland Bear Clan around. Make it a club that was known all over the Midwest. Maybe the country.

But what could they do?

It was then he said something, very offhandedly, that
did
turn everything around….

T
HE
BOARD
took it very well. That and all the decisions they’d made that day.

“You really got Cueball?” asked Jon, their treasurer and the only nonbear of the group. He was an otter, however—slim, fit, with piercing blue-green eyes and a well-trimmed dark blond beard, as well as a very hairy chest—and what bear club was complete without some otters? Especially sexy otters? Ron knew that because Jon took every opportunity to wear as little as possible and was always finding an excuse to take his shirt off. Of course, Ron had seen a lot more than that. Jon had a pretty wild Twitter page and wasn’t hesitant about posting nude selfies. Ron had looked. He hadn’t been able to help himself. Jon was a tad slimmer than he preferred, but the pictures had been hot. Damned hot. If nothing else, Jon was hung.

Paddy nodded. “We sure did.”

A pang of guilt hit Ron, and he couldn’t blow it off. “Well,” he admitted, “Paddy did. He knows the guy.”

Paddy waved it off. “Yes, maybe. But
we
got him.”

“Hope you guys don’t mind we made the on-the-spot decision,” Ron said.

Harvey, a true bear, big and round with a dark red beard that pretty much hid his mouth, twitched his shoulders. “I don’t mind. Mel made most of the decisions anyway.” He leaned over his laptop and made a few notes. He was the secretary, after all. “We just sorta pretty much went along with whatever he wanted.”

“And I don’t want to be
that
president,” Ron said. “You guys should be in on everything.”

Harvey gave another one of his pseudo shrugs—as if he didn’t care enough to put sufficient energy into it for a full-on shrug. So much the opposite of Billy’s full-body events. “Look. It was easy being on Mel’s team. All I’ve had to do is show up for meetings once a month for a couple hours and drink his husband’s margaritas. It was a good deal. I don’t even know who the hell Cueball is, but if he’ll ramp up our attendance, I’m all for it.”

“How can you not know who Cueball is?” said Gary Álvarez, the club’s communications officer (affectionately known as the “Communications Queen”), the biggest and oldest member of the board, with a tiny silver gray goatee. In truth, when the labels came out, he was considered a “chub” because that goatee and the little bit of hair on his head was about the only hair he had. Ron didn’t care a lot for labels, though. He just knew that Gary was his friend. It was his job to make sure people not only knew about the club, but also its monthly events, as well as put together the quarterly (it had been monthly once upon a time) club newsletter.

Margaritas?
Ron wondered. He was supposed to serve margaritas? He’d thought he’d done good getting his apartment mostly clean. There wasn’t one pair of underwear or socks lying around anywhere. Not even in the bedroom. His mother would have been shocked—not that she had ever seen his apartment. Or likely ever would.

“I don’t know who he is!” exclaimed Harvey. “So
arrest
me!”

“I don’t have any margaritas,” Ron said.

“No one is arresting you, Harvey,” said Gary. “You would only get turned on by the handcuffs.”

“We do, however, have box-o-wine!” declared Paddy—once more thinking of everything. Sure enough, he was holding up one of the big boxes of Franzia wine that Ron had seen a million times at the local Sun Fresh grocery store.

Ron shook his head. Paddy had saved the day again. How could this man possibly be the same man who had been so damned mean to him?

“Who wants wine?” Paddy asked.

“Me! Me!” called Gary, forgetting all about Cueball and handcuffs.

Everyone agreed, even Jon, who was a Pabst Blue Ribbon man all the way.

“Glasses?” asked Paddy, and Ron jumped up to get them.

A few minutes later, they all had their wine, and Ron and Paddy began to tell them their other ideas.

To their delight, not only did the crew like their music idea, but the one for new decorations as well. “We could have a bake sale,” said Gary, rubbing his prodigious belly. “You know, to help raise the money? And the only thing we bears are better at than making cookies and pies and cakes—”

“Is eating them!” they all chorused.

“And we could have a big painting party,” said Jon. He was very excited, and Ron couldn’t get over his enthusiasm. To Jon, maintaining his cool was everything. He was “the Fonz” of otters. “We could make some more of your big banners, you know, Ron? You do the drawings, then we’ll use that projector thing, draw them up, and everyone could paint.”

Ron bit his lower lip. Painting wasn’t all that easy.

Jon laughed. Laughed! “Oh come on! It can be like paint by numbers! You write a number in the spaces and we can all paint. Who didn’t do paint by numbers when they were kids? Anyone can paint by numbers!”

To Ron’s surprise, Harvey joined in. “You know, he’s right. Hell! I did a Last Supper when I was in fifth grade that my mom still has hanging in her dining room. Despite the fact that I made John black!”

Jon threw back his head and laughed again.

Ron considered it a moment.
Hmmmmm
…. It didn’t sound like a bad idea. He looked over at Paddy, who nodded, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“It would certainly get people involved,” Paddy said. “And isn’t that what we really want?”

But it was the final idea they sprang on the board that would mean everything. The idea they had gotten while sitting around the fountain.

It was the biggie.

The one about moving the holiday party from the VFW hall, where it had been held for years. Ron held his breath… and then began.

“And where will it be?” Gary said very calmly, bright-eyed, studying them both.

Paddy looked at Ron. “Tell them.”

“It was you,” Ron said. “You should tell them.”

“It was your idea,” Paddy said.

Was it? Vaguely he supposed. “But it was you that thought of the actual place….”

“Just tell us!” shouted the usually indifferent Harvey.

“Caves!” Ron shouted back.

“Caves?” asked Gary.

Paddy nodded excitedly. “We were sitting around thinking and thinking and thinking about where we could move the party. A place that would make people sit up and take notice. Then… what did you say, Ron?”

All eyes turned to him, and Ron found himself blushing. “C-Caves,” he repeated. “I was thinking about our name. The Bear Clan. And then I was thinking about the book and that silly movie with Daryl Hannah,
The Clan of the Cave Bear
….”

“That’s how we got our name,” said Gary, who had been around since the beginning of the club. “Our founding member, Tug, was crazy about those boring books. He even met the author and got her autograph. He asked her if he could name the club after the book, and I guess—but I’m not too sure anymore—that she wasn’t too excited about it. So he just changed it a little bit.”

Ron nodded. He’d heard about that. “So I said it’s too bad we can’t have our party in a cave. But I couldn’t really imagine how. It would be too cold in December. It was Paddy who thought about what we could do.”

“Tell us!” Gary growled.

“
Business
caves,” said Paddy. “There are quite a few of them in Kansas City. Pillsbury, Ford, and Russell Stover are just three businesses that have operations in manmade caves. And then there are more caves on 39th Street.”

“So we started making some more calls,” Ron continued excitedly, seeing that his fellow board members were intrigued. “And found out there are several nonprofit places where people can go down and spend the day in these environmentally controlled caves. Like there’s one called EarthWorks—it’s for kids. But there’s others. And we finally got a hold of this guy who was thrilled to hear from us.”

Everyone’s mouths dropped open.

“Turns out he’s queer,” Paddy said. “And with all the publicity he could get by reaching out to the gay community—what with gay marriage and all that—he jumped on our idea. He said there was room for at least five hundred people in his cave—it’s in North Kansas City—and he’s practically giving us the space. Some other business failed, and his father owned the place and turned it over to our guy. And our guy wants us.”

“You’re fucking kidding,” said Harvey, scratching at his big red beard.

“Nope.” Ron laughed.

“It’s true!” Paddy was bouncing on his toes. “Can you imagine? A party one hundred and sixty feet underground! It’s got all these levels and stalactites and stalagmites and everything. He sent us pictures. Show them, Ron.”

Ron opened a folder and passed the pictures they’d printed out to the group. There were lots of
ooohs
and
aaaahs
. “He said we could have a DJ, and there’s a big kitchen and everything.” Ron’s heart was rushing now. The guys were excited. He could see it.

“This is fucking fantastic!” exclaimed Harvey.
Harvey!
Who never got excited about anything. “Can’t you just see it? The posters? Our ads?”

Gary was nodding just as enthusiastically. “Come join the Heartland Bear Clan in the caves of Kansas City!”

“For the beary best holiday party ever!” said Paddy.

And this time Ron didn’t argue.

AUGUST

R
ON
’
S
FIRST
meeting as the president of the Heartland Bear Clan went off like gangbusters. Everyone was thrilled. Every idea he and Paddy came up with was met with cheers of excitement. And Jon’s idea of a big paint-by-numbers party met with equal enthusiasm. The only thing that had annoyed people was that Ron had, in fact, started the meeting exactly on time. It had been a decision he’d made and kept. Yes, some people were mad—they were used to being able to show up half an hour late and still not miss anything.

But besides that one little bit of unpleasantness, he couldn’t have been happier. And after taking care of business and assuring them that next month the meeting would start on time once again, it was fun to stand back for a few moments and let everyone talk.

He had one more thing he wanted to say before the meeting was officially over, though. “Everybody? Everybody!” But everyone was chattering away so excitedly, they couldn’t hear him.

Paddy let out a high-piercing whistle that brought the uproar to a stop. “Listen,” he shouted. “Your president has something to say.”

With the room quiet—even the bar music had been turned way down—Ron smiled and stepped back in front of the men. The dance floor had been converted into their monthly meeting place by pulling the extra chairs from the storeroom and lining them up in rows. That didn’t stop people from sitting on the stools around the room.

He pointed at one of those stools, the one occupied by a big man with gray hair and a goatee, wearing a bright orange shirt. “I think we all need to give a big round of applause to Mel Gunter, your president for the past ten years. He leaves on Monday morning, along with his husband, Jerry, for Florida, and I think we should send him off with plenty of cheers!”

The room exploded into whoops and hollers and loud clapping.

Mel stood, and the noise grew even louder. He pumped his fist, and there were even more cheers. “Thanks, everybody,” he said in his deepest, “manliest” voice. “Woof!”

More cheers.

Woof?
Ron thought.
I thought that was for when you’re flirting?

“I want to thank you guys for your years of loyalty,” Mel continued. “Years”—he locked eyes with Ron (it was very uncomfortable)—“of
tradition
. Of remembering what’s
important
.” He put lots of emphasis on that last word.

There was a spattering of applause at that—as if the crowd wasn’t sure what it should do.

Ron decided it might be best to do a little directing.

“To Mel!” he shouted. “To Mel!”

That did it, and the cheers were back, along with echoes of “To Mel!” Mel himself—who had looked confused for a moment—was now grinning and pumping his fists in the air again.

When the noise finally quieted down, Mel sat as well, surrounded by his closest friends. He had at least three beers handed to him, and Ron wondered how drunk he’d be before he went home.

Hell
, he thought.
Mel deserves it. So what if he’s gotten a little lax in the last few years.
If it weren’t for him, there wouldn’t
be
a Heartland Bear Clan. The club was dying when he took over. So he deserved all the accolades he was receiving. Ron figured that before too long, he’d be buying Mel a beer as well.

But now it was time for him to say a last few words before the meeting ended.

“Guys, I just wanted to thank you all for being here tonight and for cheering me and Paddy and the rest of the board on. But most especially I wanted you to know how much it means to me that you’ve elected me as your new president.”

“Yowza,” called someone out there, and everyone laughed.

Ron too. There was no helping it. He looked at Paddy, and damned if the cub’s eyes weren’t doing that sparkle thing. To Ron’s surprise, butterflies once again danced in his belly. He shivered deliciously.