Tell Me It's Real(75)

Dad grinned as he shut the door. “Wow. Maybe I should find myself a boyfriend too. Apparently the gay boys give each other nice things.”

“I heard that,” my mother said from the kitchen. “You go find yourself a nice man, Larry. Let me know how that works out for you.”

“Your mom thinks that if I was gay, I’d be a bottom,” he whispered to me.

“The fact that you’re sharing this with me does not bode well for how tonight is going to go,” I told him. “I’ve been here for two minutes, Dad. You think we could wait until at least dessert before we have to have this conversation and show Vince just how dysfunctional we really are? I’d like to lead him in with a false sense of security before ripping it all away to reveal the dark underbelly of the Auster family.”

“Of course,” he said cheerfully. “Oh, and your mother wanted to know if you are going to be allowed to eat at the table with the rest of us, or if your master is going to make you sit at his feet and stare at the floor and feed you by hand.” He glanced over his shoulder then leaned in closer to me and lowered his voice. “We haven’t told Nana about that side of you, so I just wanted to ask if you could keep the pony sounds to a minimum. We’re not stifling you, and we want you to be who you are, always, but I don’t want Nana to get worried when you start neighing when Vince hands you a sugar cube or piece of apple.”

“I can’t believe you guys think I do that. Dad, I’m not a fucking pony! Vince is not my master! He’s my boyfriend.”

“Language,” my father said.

“Sorry,” I grumbled. And I was. If there was one thing my father asked for, it was that we watched our mouths. He was of the opinion that cursing added nothing to a conversation. I didn’t fucking agree with that in the slightest, but it was fucking important to him, so I fucking did it. Fucking shit balls. “I’ll be sitting at the table like everyone else.”

“Is that Paul?” I heard Nana shout from the living room.

“Yes, Nana. It’s me.”

“Johnny Depp! You hear that? Paul is here!”

“Ass-wrangler!” Johnny Depp squawked. “Don’t touch me!”

“This is so not going to go well,” I muttered. I wheeled the bike down the hall and hid it in one of the bedrooms before going back out to the living room.

My nana, Gigi, sat in her old lounge chair, her feet propped up on a bright green ottoman that clashed horribly with her bright purple recliner. Ever since I was a kid, she’d always had a thing for vivid colors, not caring if they went well with each other or not. She used to tell me that she was a little bit color-blind, and the bright colors helped her see them clearly. It wasn’t until years later that I learned that one cannot be “a little bit color-blind” and that she was essentially full of shit. Some might think that she was batshit crazy, and given that her cat used to eat out of her mouth, she just might have been, but she was also my nana: a hard-core woman fiercely protective of her family. Unfortunately, she included Johnny Depp as part of her family and told me once that it was just good-natured ribbing and that the bird wasn’t really homophobic. I didn’t believe that one in the slightest. The bird hated homosexuals.

“Paulie!” she grinned at me toothlessly. Her white, curly hair shot off from her head in odd directions. She was a short, squat woman with a kind, wrinkled face and eyes that showed a sharp intelligence that had yet to fade.

“Fairy!” Johnny Depp told me. He sat in a large cage in the corner, his gorgeous plumage hiding his evil, beating heart. He glared at me as I entered the room, clicking his claws against the wooden beam as he moved closer. “Don’t put your finger in my bum!”

Nana cackled.

I hadn’t heard that one before. “Are you teaching him new things?” I said as I kissed her cheek. “I told you that it can’t be healthy for an animal to be so hateful.”

“I didn’t teach him a thing,” she said, grabbing and squeezing my hand. “He seems to think of these things on his own.”

“You’re so full of shit,” I told her.

“Larry!” she called out.

“What?”

“Your son is using foul language around me!”

“Language,” my father scolded from the kitchen.

“Paul touched penises with a neighbor’s dog,” Johnny Depp said.

“Oh Jesus,” I groaned. “Nana, can we put him in another room, at least until we leave? Or better yet, can I flush him down the toilet?”

“Killing animals is a sign that you could be a serial killer,” she told me. “I saw that on the news. You kill animals, you grow up to kill hookers.”