Labour of Love by Doug Wilson

Author:Doug Wilson [Wilson, Doug]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Gay Men, Humor, AIDS, Toronto, Canada, Arkansas
Publisher: ReQueered Tales
Published: 1993-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

I wake with a start. I have no idea where I am. I’m stretched out on a huge, battered sofa in a strange room. Zero’s dad is sitting by my side. He snaps to attention when he sees my eyes open. He leaps to his feet and salutes, then reaches out to pump my hand enthusiastically.

“Mighty glad you dropped by, young feller. The Almighty Goddess had mentioned in a recent dispatch that we might expect a visitation.”

“Charles, I don’t know if you remember me,” I say cautiously. “I’m David McLure, Zero’s friend.”

He looks at me as though I’m seriously deranged. “Of course I know you!” he protests. “I have long been in close personal contact with many of you northern aliens.”

He’s wearing silver-gray polyester pants with white fur cuffs. They’re short in the leg and belted high. His huge belt buckle proclaims “Space Cadet.” A red and yellow embroidered vest covers a faded purple jersey. On the back of his vest orange felt letters have been glued haphazardly to declare “Raized by wolves.” He has a tattoo of a space invader on his left arm. Silver and turquoise bangles rattle on his arm and an eagle-feather medallion hangs around his neck. He looms over me, still standing at attention.

“At ease, Charles,” I order.

He relaxes. Switches gears. “Are you all right, David?” he asks, full of concern. “You’ve been raving delirious all night.” He places his big warm hand on my forehead. “I think maybe your fever’s broken. We’ve been mighty worried. You still look real peaked.”

“What about Frenchie? Did she come back?’ I ask.

“Frenchie?” he looks perplexed. “Oh, your friend. I called the state troopers and they caught up to her a little ways up the road. She was kind of frantic. I told her we’d found you and for her to go on into Little Rock. Said we’d send you in as soon as your fever went down. So she’s holed up at Stellrita’s, waitin to hear from you. She’s been callin’.”

“Thanks, Charles.”

I hear the sound of eggs being cracked and bacon beginning to fry. I’m suddenly dizzy with hunger.

A woman enters carrying thick mugs of rich, steaming coffee. She looks at me intently from under the brim of her hat. They are both wearing Razorback hog hats. She’s wearing a T-shirt that across her chest promises the best burger at Say McIntosh’s Famous Little Rock Restaurant. Across her belly is a picture of a black man punching a jowly old white guy in the head. I recognize the image immediately. I have the same one taped to my fridge door.

Say McIntosh, Little Rock’s self-styled “Black Santa Claus,” is famous throughout Arkansas as a restaurateur, philanthropist, and tireless fighter for the rights of the downtrodden. Some think he’s just a shameless publicity hound. Anyway, the image on her T-shirt had appeared, even in the Toronto newspapers, earlier this year when Say had whacked a member of the Ku Klux Klan, his opponent for some local civic office.

Charles announces, “This

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