I make my living with words so it can't be a surprise to anyone of my acquaintance that I often think about words and
savor them. The same word can mean different things to a host of people. The same word can mean different things dependant
upon the current usage. Words can sound the same yet be spelled in a most unexpected way.
Many a time and oft have I wondered about a turn of phrase or the name by which something is called. Take for example the term fainting couch'. By what set of circumstances or by what law of either propriety or propinquity did such a piece of furniture ever come to be called a fainting couch'. When uttered, which it isn't much these days, an image is immediately flashed upon the brain: the image of a short low couch with one arm which flows in an unbroken line a quarter of the way across the back of the small settee. It is, in fact, a one-armed, quarter-backed couch. Quare. Why? Did people faint so often in the past that they required a special piece of furniture to be built for the purpose?
When I hear the phrase, my mind thrusts me into Scarlet O'Hara's bedroom at Tara. There, one would most surely find a Belle reclining on it' with a servant waving smelling salts under her pert, pinched nose trying to revive her from some imagined affront or a crass vulgarity that was just too much to be born' by a lady of genteel upbringing. Or, I think of an abysmally over-decorated New York pied a terre of some sweet old queen. There would absolutely be one there.
One could, however, think when he heard the name, if he heard the name, of the Ladies lounge in some fashionable, dark restaurant. `I' shall think that from this point forward. How could I not. That's where I woke up. In this case, propinquity won the day. After my manly, but decorative, swoon, the assembled thought it best to lay me out until I regained myself. And that's where I found me.
Joe had stooped and picked me up bodily, barking orders to anyone in his way.
"Waiter, where can I take him for some privacy?"
Not missing a beat, the canny waiter snarled, "Right this way sir, if you please."
He stopped us outside the ladies room and sent a colleague in to case the joint and clear it out. That done, Joe took me inside and laid me down on . . . you guessed it, a fainting couch.
As sense peeked around the corner of my consciousness, light began to build an image in my eyes. I saw thick, glossy, ebony colored hair. It was exceedingly straight as hair goes. A soup bowl was probably part of the barber's arsenal when grooming this man during his childhood. A proud wide brow with three discreet, deep creases latitudinally across it was next. The nose was a real killer. Beautiful, first of all, and made more so by the distinct but gentle bend to the right which kept it's owner free from the sin of hubris. The cheeks. Oh man, the cheeks. As feeling seeped back into my fingers, all I wanted to do was touch his cheeks, so perfectly shadowed with the assurance of a beard that would become unruly and demand attention in another few hours. It was one of those perfect beards, or the promise of one, the kind that has more follicles per inch than seems possible or even advisable when given the nutrition it would take to support them.
His mouth struck the only dissonant chord. Here it was, a slash placed equidistant from his nose and his architecturally precise chin which, need I mention, was set in a pair of God's most perfect jaws. It was a mean crappy mouth!
"No. Stop. This can't happen." My silent interior scream of outrage at this imperfection ricocheted around my skull adding to the muzzy-headed confusion I was victim to. It was incomprehensible to me that whatever creative force produced this gem of great price could have been so short-sighted as to screw up the mouth. This emblem of masculine pulchritude just couldn't have a mean little thin-lipped pie hole.
Then he smiled. He saw the confusion of a newly risen person leave my face and eyes to be replaced by anger at that shitty insult of a mouth. But, when he smiled, all the electrical generators in the city blushed with shame at how flabby they were in comparison to the wattage coming from that smile. There they were. There were the luscious, full colored lips made to compliment Joe's face. They could only have belonged to him. They said `Joe'. They defined the perfection of his face. I hadn't seen them just now because he was deeply concerned for me and so had scruntched up his countenance in worry.
The funny thing was, his lips were forming a word but it wasn't `Joe'. It was . . . "Pete?" Then it was, "Peter?"
"Pete? Speak to me man. Are you gonna be ok?"
"Yeah, thanks Joe. I'm fine." I lied. "Now will you stop smiling? Those teeth are blinding me. By the way, where are we and who stabbed you? I'll kill whoever it was just as soon as I can walk!"
Before my crooked grin splashed itself across my grateful face he leaned in and kissed me. Not a quick peck on the lips but a proper deep, lingering kiss. It fed me his relief, his strength and his sense of delight at our joining. Make no mistake friends. When we saw each other the bond was sealed. That which faith had decreed in me when I was a child had, it turns out, been likewise given to him. Alone, yet together, we had learned the lessons and traveled the miles required of us to make that moment possible. The sound of our bond closing itself must have been an audible event to those in attendance. I'll have to ask someone who was there. I can't believe I haven't yet.
"Uh . . . Joe? Would it be an imposition, do you think, if I were to ask you why you and I have been plunked down in the middle of what I can only believe by my supreme powers of observation, to be the Zebra Suite at Pandora's House of Pain by Interior Design?"
The room was terrifying! It looked for all the world like a zebra miraculously constructed of cloth and wallpaper had exploded in a very rude way indeed. Even in my lust to acknowledge that the love of my life had just been `deus ex machinad' (sic) into existence, it was impossible and ungentlemanly to allow such calumny to go unchallenged.
The walls were zebra print wall covering . . . metallic . . . plastic . . . wall covering. There were elongated images of little Joes and Petes everywhere, even on the ceiling, reflected from the ill-advised chromesque stripes which were representative of the regulation white stripes, one supposes. The black horror stripes were mercifully non-reflective of any images. I did a double take at what looked like a golden eye set waist level in the wall across the room. I never realized that zebras had golden eyes. As soon as that stupid thought had formed, it dawned on me that the dominatrix Pandora must have allowed her generosity with the wall covering to extend to and include the doors, for God's sake. The woman had a decorative mania!
As if that weren't enough to raise the gore in a carrion-eating buzzard, every possible surface was ruffled and/or bowed. There were at least five full length mirrors behind five tiny little vanity sets. Was this some psilocybin induced rendition of Goldilocks and the exploding zebra? Mushrooms! Ah, yes, I had been at dinner.
"Oh shit Joe, what is this I'm sitting on?" I said as I actually levitated off the monstrous thing upon which I had been seated. It looked almost like the Borg had tried to assimilate a zebra, had got confused and stopped at the `assimi' part.
"Jesus," I said as I leaned as close as I dared to it to examine it further. "It looks like the aborted fetus of an unnatural cross between a zebra and a settee!"
"Very good, my dear Watson! You are sharp are you not? It a fainting couch and since you did, I thought some privacy and a piece of furniture designed to hold the result of your gracious welcome to me, might not be taken amiss. You're welcome and by the way, you are the one who stabbed me. See? Blud!"
My eyes teared and I simply lost it. I cracked up at the absurdist dream that had become our first meeting. This boy was giving me as good as he got. I should have known he would. We were made for each other.
Joe cracked next. His knees buckled with the laughing sickness I had just passed to him. He reached out and put his magnificent hairy hands on my hips to steady himself as he silently shook with hilarity. To steady himself, he put the crown of his head against my belt buckle. Just at that moment Vivvy twisted the golden eye on the other wall and stuck her head into the anteroom, blanched and blithely turned to the group of well wishers just outside the door and said in her deep and cultured tones, "Oh Christ. Back to the table and order another round of double chocolate mousse for everyone. We'll be here a while. They're actually fucking in the ladies lounge of Zimbabwe 47. Most people of my acquaintance can't even manage a reservation!"
With that, the door slammed and Joe and I were set off into a fresh surge of laughter.
By the good offices of the staff of the restaurant, we were left to compose ourselves.
We had both brought our risible collapse to fruition and were reclining on the floor when breath finally slowed and returned to normal.
Joe rose to his knees and grabbing my arm, chucked me up in front of him. He took my face in his hands and kissed me gently but very soundly. Then he said, "Come on my love we have some `splainin' to do. Are you ready?'
I considered and then said in agreement, "Yeah. I'm ready. You know I'll follow you anywhere don't you?"
"I'm counting on that Pete," he said with gravity.
Realizing that we, or more accurately, I, had just caused quite a scene, I asked, "Could we just make our excuses and then get out of here please? I'd like to be alone with you and try to talk through what's just happened and how we're to proceed from here."
"Shall we go to your place? I'm staying with Vivvy and Frank." Joe explained.
Frank is great guy and Vivvy is my dearest friend. They're just a very unlikely couple. Viv is a refined woman of wonderful taste and great humor. She's Dean of Students at the Arts college which is the pride of our city. Oh, did I mention that she has the tongue of a beer truck driver? One of the reasons that I cherish her is that she'll singe your hide off with invective at the most unexpected moments. But . . . she is always a lady about it. I find it an endearing trait.
Now Frank, as unlikely as it may seem, is known professionally as Lois Price. Yip. He headlines a drag show down in the flower district. His costume has `Sale' tags hanging off of every item and his act revolves around hilarious tales and songs about clothes shopping and fashion commentary in general. He and Vivvy have been married for dog's years and love each other completely. I think the reason that they get on so well is that Frank . . . er. . . Lois, let's Vivvy have a hand in his costume selection. Their shopping sprees are legendary and Vivvy loves to pay the bills. She can. She's loaded. Wonderful Viv explained to me one liquid afternoon that Frank's penchant for drag allows her to express her tacky side. She calls it balance. I told her she was full of it. What she was expressing was love and acceptance of the man she adores. She joins and glories in what he enjoys. Well, it's that and his cock. She loves his cock. Why wouldn't she? The man is magnificent. He's talented in application too, to hear her tell it. These facts all taken as a piece make for two very interesting people with whom to share a lamb chop or a vacation in Canada, both of which I've done frequently and to my great delight.
As we left the ladies loo, Joe allowed me the dignity of proceeding under my own power but kept a hand on my shoulder blade just in case rescue was required. Exiting the room, I turned and looked over my right shoulder at that affront of a vestibule and marked in my mind to be sure to remember to ask the angels at my certain entrance into heaven, why this particular setting had been chosen for such an auspicious meeting?
We approached the table where my dining partners had been patiently waiting.
Now you must understand how much I love the five people who gazed at Joe and me. Each had found his way into my life as an ornament to it. We treasured each other and were always concerned about the comfort and security of the other. We had become a rather tight-knit supportive circle, each, always there for the other. Given their obvious concern for what had just happened to me, they felt the needed to make me feel comfortable and supported. How, you may well ask, did they choose to express their concern and support? They all rose from our table in the middle of the restaurant and applauded, stamped their feet and yelled, "Bravi, bravi. Well done!" It's curious to be an observer when the dynamics of group behavior take over. To my horror, the entire population of servers, chefs, bus -- persons, and patrons all rose and joined the acclimation of the two men who had (as rumor had it) just screwed each other silly in a nest of zebra guts.
I just looked over at my rock who at this moment, looked like he was about to lose control and join the hilarity, and with no explanation possible, I propelled us out of the scene of both my triumph and my Reader's Digest caliber `Most Embarrassing Moment'.