Toxically Masculine

Ch. 9 of An Evening With God

Bud Timmons wasn’t a bad guy to work for, unless you were one of the Mexicans who convened shivering in the Home Depot parking lot every morning hoping to be hired

for the day, in which case you might wind up getting paid a week to 10 days late, or not at all if Bud didn’t like your looks and you were undocumented. But as the biggest firm of its type in the area, Timmons Builders was who was most likely to give a non-English speaker a day’s work, so the Mexicans, Hondurans, Guatemalans, Salvadorans, and one Panamanian Bud referred to collectively as the beaner brigade bit their tongues and kept piling into the backs of his foremen’s F-150s at hiring time.

It had taken Osman several months to work himself into Bud's inner circle, the Bud Bros., the trio of foremen Bud liked to drink with at the Hot Spot, and occasionally play golf with. It had taken Norm Collison’s dying from prostate cancer at 46 to free up the spot in what Bud jokingly referred to as his posse that Osman was able to step into.

Bud's Cadillac Escalade’s rear bumper contained stickers expressing his enthusiasm not just for Donald Trump, but also for the ultra-conservative pawn shop owner whom the voters of the area had almost elected to Congress the previous November. When he had a couple of Scotch-and-sodas in him, Bud became generous with his very low opinion of black, brown, and homosexual people at a volume that on four occasions had resulted in a brown person asking Bud if might want to continue his discussion of the relative merits of various ethnicities out in the parking lot.

The first two times that had happened since Osman’s becoming a member of the Bud Bros., Rex had said he’d love to, but because of his bad back, would have to ask Steve Noonan to go in his place. Steve was approximately the size of the F-150 he drove, and his might-have-been combatants invariably remembered pressing business at home.

The third and fourth times, Osman had been Bud's go-to guy. He’d been on the wrestling team at San Rod High School the year it opened, and had managed to get Bud’s antagonist in a hold the guy eventually got tired of being in, and conceded. The other time, the dude had loosened one of Osman’s front teeth before Osman could get him down on the ground with Osman’s knee on his neck. Bud couldn’t have been more delighted, and knelt down to tell Osman’s vanquished opponent, “That’s just one hell of a George Floyd imitation you’re doing there, brownie.”

The guy had the sense not to tell Bud to fuck himself, or maybe he was unable to speak. Had he done so, Bud would have been pissed off if Osman let him up.

When they weren’t antagonizing Latinos, the Bud Bros enjoyed comparing notes on the relative awfulness of their wives. When he reached a needs-to-be-driven-home state of drunkenness, Bud would lean far forward over their table, look around to make sure no one but the Bros. could hear, and confide that he was getting plenty on the side. He seemed not to realize that he’d made this revelation twice in the short time Osman had been a member of his posse. “You know what they say about black girls — that once you’ve had it black you never want to go back?” he seemed to enjoy asking. “Well, I’ve got my own little saying. ‘After dark brown, the only way is down.’” The Bros were expected to find that a real knee-slapper regardless of how many times he said it.

Osman’s understanding was that Bud was fixed up with undocumented Latinx girls by a buddy in the local Immigration and Customs Enforcement office. This buddy apparently earned more fixing up guys like Bud with girls who might otherwise be deported than doing his official duties.

Hearing what terrific lovers Latinx women were, Osman thought the best idea might be not to mention that his own girlfriend, Lupe, was Guatemalan. One “banged” Latinx…bitches, and, if the bitches were good, allowed them to make them breakfast, but certainly didn’t share apartments with them, not unless they wanted to catch one of the diseases Latinos were known to bring with them across the border, along with drugs.

Word got around that the next time Bud and his posse came in, the Hot Spot’s owner, Paco, intended to a group of day workers Bud had cheated in the past few months, and that they would descend on the place en masse wearing balaclavas and kick the Bros’ asses. Bud was strangely delighted by the idea. “Long before Paco makes his little call, you see, I’ll make a couple of calls of my own — to the sheriff and to my buddy at ICE. Chances are that San Rod’s undocumented alien population might go way down.”

Osman hated the idea. He was pretty sure Lupe’s uncle, who’d raised her, would be among those beaten senseless or arrested to be deported. But he worried in vain, apparently because the sheriff and ICE hadn’t mastered the concept of waiting out of sight for the disgruntled day workers to turn up.

Bud was bitterly disappointed, and not content to try to drown his disappointment in margaritas. He considered the idea of getting Noonan to loosen a couple of Paco’s teeth, just to keep him from thinking of betraying Bud and the Bros anytime in the future, but Carl, another of the Bros, had something he thought might of even greater interest. — a new bar over in El Bosquerito he’d heard was becoming popular with what it amused Bud to call the LGBTQRSTUVWXYZ community.

“Oh, sensational,” Bud said, a little happily. ”Here we’ve got illegal aliens and their drugs and diseases. And now, over there, we’ve got the AIDS crowd? Well, as President Trump said, some of the brownies might be good people, but show me a faggot or dyke that the Bible thinks is just fine.” Neither Carl nor Noonan had ever heard anything funnier.

They piled into Bud's Escalade and drove over, Bud in the back seat and Carl behind the wheel with Noonan. Bud had taken to having Carl drive even when he wasn’t full of triple sec and tequila. It amused him to think of himself as being chauffeured. He’d even taken to addressing Carl as Chauff (pronounced shofe).

From the outside, one would never have guessed that Barro Bosquerito would be a watering hole popular with persons described as abominable in Leviticus 18:22. It was the same story inside. There wasn’t a rainbow flag in sight, but lots of Dos X, Corona, and Sol signs. The bartender didn’t look as though he spent half his waking hours in the gym, and didn’t look like he moisturized.

There were a few single men at the bar, but none seemed erotically fascinated by those on either side of him, and none was speaking to another. They had eyes — swollen ones, with bags underneath — only for their drinks. The three couples in the place were all mixed-sex. At one table, though, a woman with too much eyeliner and too many bracelets sat between a pair of men, one maybe 40 and the other nearer to 50, and it was the judgment of the former vice cop Carl that she was a “fag hag”, and her two companions a romantic pair.

Bud couldn’t have been more delighted. “Go find out for sure,” he told Carl.

“If she was 30 years younger,” Bud informed Noonan and Osman, referring to the woman between the two men, “I might hit that, but I’d need a couple of stiff drinks first, and a bag to put over her head.”

Carl returned to the table shaking his head. They’re a family. Dad, son, and son’s stepmom, also known as Dad’s new wife.”

“”Dude’s not old enough to be the younger one’s dad,” Noonan said, finding the concept a challenge

“Shit he ain’t,” Bud said. “I was 17 when my first was born. Must be 36 by now. Gave him up for adoption. Hey, you know what I need? Some nicotine.”

He and the Bros trooped out into the parking lot. Noonan and Carl vaped. Bud lit a Kool. “So,” he asked Osman, “you going out for the volleyball team or something, kid?” Osman’s face made clear he didn’t get the joke. “It’s what guys used to say in high school. They didn’t smoke because they were going out for this team or that team. And I figured somebody like you, who apparently doesn’t have a girlfriend, would go out for one of the less manly sports.” He winked at Noonan, who guffawed dutifully.

“My uncle Tim died of emphysema,” Osman said. “It was an awful thing to witness. A smoker from the age of 16.”

“Maybe if he hadn’t waited so long, he’d have been all right,” Bud said, telling Noonan with his eyes that he expected another laugh. “I started when I was 13, and I’ve never been healthier.’

“True enough,” Carl said, making Osman wonder if the two had really known each other since puberty. He found the thought distasteful.

A Prius with a rainbow flag bumper sticker pulled into the parking lot. “Well, if that ain’t a faggotmobile, I don’t know what is, Carl said. “How about you, boss?”

“You ain’t wrong about that, C,” Bud said, exhaling mentholated smoke through his nose. But his mood changed in front of Osman’s eyes as the fourth of the car’s occupants, a head taller than his three companions, and much heavier, emerged from it. Heading for the bar’s entrance, two of the young men put their arms around each other’s waists.

“Bud,” Carl marvelled. “Ain’t that your boy Rex?”

If Osman had had to guess froma quick look, he’d have guessed that it was a double date, and that the two with their arms around each other had set up the big guy and the third small guy, who were looking at each as though confused. None of them seemed aware of Bud and the Bros. observing them.

“Well, ain’t it,, Bob?” Carl insisted.

“How about you shut your friggin’ mouth?” Bud snarled, and Carl was the most regretful man on the face of the earth.

“Let’s get out of here,” Noonan said. “These faggots turn my stomach.”

“We’ll go when I friggin’ say we’re going,” said Bud, suddenly in a very bad mood. ”Kid,” he said to Osman, “get in there. Call me and tell me what they’re doing.”

Osman did as he was told. His first report, not delivered until Carl and Noonan had started getting antsy about standing around in the parking lot, was that the pair with arms around each other had put money into the jukebox and were dancing to what he thought was Beyonce. “I ain’t interested in them two,” Bud snarled. “It’s what the big boy’s doing I want to know!”

Osman repositioned himself to get a clearer view of the big kid and his apparently blind date, and phoned Bud again a few minutes later, after Bud had told Carl and Noonan in no uncertain tone that they would be out in the parking with him until he told them different. The big kid and his new friend were holding hands across the table they were sitting at, while the other two, tired of dancing, had gone to the bar.

Bud directed Carl to drop Noonan off first, and then to drive to his own place, where he got out and Osman took his place at the wheel. Osman had never seen Bud ride in the front passenger seat, but he moved into it after they dropped Carl off.

“There’s something you’re going to do for me this week,” Bud said. “I can’t remember you ever talking about a wife or girlfriend, but I can’t imagine you’re a fag. If I’m wrong about that, get out here and I’ll drive myself home.”

“I’ve got a girlfriend,” Osman said, keeping his eyes on the road.

That seemed to please Bud. He exhaled in what appeared to be relief and said, “I need you to have a talk with my boy. The big guy I had you watching earlier? That was my son Rex. He’s been nothing but a disappointment to me all his life. Lazy. Not much going on upstairs, if you know what I mean. A shitty athlete. And now this? Give me a friggin’ break, why don’t you?”

It wasn’t clear to Osman if his employer expected him to confer the referenced break. He told Bud he’d give it his best shot. Bud said his much younger wife Sue, his kids’ stepmother, had Pilates on Tuesday afternoons, and that Tuesday afternoon would be a good time for Osman to come over for his intervention with Rex.

Rex and Osman had never met. Rex was suspicious, and reminded Osman of the older (mid-20s) dude from whom he and his friends had bought weed in high school, and sure enough the first words out of Rex’s mouth when he opened the front door were “I’m cleaned out at the moment, and even if I wasn’t, whoever told you about me should have told you I don’t do business out of the house.” Osman had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. If he’d been a narc, Rex might just as well have answered the door in a T-shirt proclaiming,”Yes, I’m a drug dealer.”

He told Rex that his dad had suggested Osman come have a talk with Rex.

“Oh, yeah?” the kid said sneering. “What about? My grades? My not wanting to try out for the fucking football team? Well, I got important shit to do. Not interested.”

He tried closing the door, only to find that Osman’s foot was in it. “If we don’t have this talk,” Osman said, “I might lose my job. “So we are going to talk, dude. Open up.”

Rex thought it over for a minute, decided he was probably headed for a fight he wouldn’t win, and stepped out of Osman’s way.

They went into the living room, in which it appeared that no woman had ever set foot. It fairly reeked of manliness, and of cigarettes. Oxblood leather furniture. Paintings of hunters and fishermen. Even a moose’s head, on the wall overlooking the biggest flat screen TV Osman had ever seen in a private home, the sort a man’s man needed to watch football, or action movies on Netflix. One wall was covered with professional-looking pinup shots of a young woman with suspiciously perfect-looking, very large breasts. Rex saw Osman looking at them and explained, “Stepmama.” His tone was mocking. “Sue. Ain’t she purty?”

They seated themselves on one of the huge oxblood sofas, and Osman said, “I’ll cut right to the chase.”

“What’s that mean?” Rex sulked. “What chase?” The kid was really dense.

“Me and your dad saw you Saturday night at El Boquerito,” Osman said.

“Never heard of the place,” Rex said, his sneer having completed its coffee break and returned to his face.

“Come on, dude,” Osman said. “We can get this done quick, or you can continue imagining you’re going to fool me. You aren’t, dude. We saw you there with three friends. You arrived in a Prius.”

Rex suddenly remembered the place. “Oh, that,” he scoffed. Could Osman have really made a special trip to talk to him about something so innocent? “Those other dudes? Two of them are gay. They hired me to be their bodyguard. I’ve got nothing against gays unless they try to put their dicks in me. I bodyguard lots of people. It pays better than delivering the Evening News or whatever.” He chuckled. Osman didn’t chuckle along with him.

“You were holding hands with one of them,” Osman said. “Understand something. I’ve got nothing against any of that. I think homophobia sucks. You are what you are. I am what I am. But I’m not sure your dad feels that way. He was pretty steamed about the other night.”

Rex suddenly looked as though he might cry. “When has Dad ever not been disappointed in me?” he said, and then did cry, so briefly that Osman might have missed it. “The funny thing about this being that Stepmama doesn’t really do Pilates on Tuesday afternoons. She meets this dude Refugio, who used to be our pool cleaner. For sex, which she doesn’t get with Dad. And you know why that is? Because Dad’s the real ‘faggot’ in the family.”

For a moment, Osman couldn’t think of how to respond. He hedged his bet by saying, “I’m not real comfortable with that word, dude, any more than I am with the N-word.”

Rex’s sneer returned. “And I guess you never hear it coming out of Dad, right? The only way that would be true is if he’s concentrating that day on the niggers and beaners.”

“You’re telling me your dad’s gay?” Osman asked.

“Don’t believe me,” Rex said. “Believe your own eyes. Let me show you his secret stash of gay porn that nobody’s supposed to know he has. Ever heard of BBC magazine?”

“British Broadcasting Corporation?”

“Big Black Cock, dude. My guess is that it’s his favorite. Want to see?”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Osman said, unable to imagine how his chances of remaining employed might be enhanced by seeing what Rex was offering to show him. “I can’t pretend I’m not surprised.” He ran his hand back through his hair and shook his head. He thought aloud. “What am I going to tell him?”

Maybe Rex wasn’t the asshole he’d at first appeared. He seemed sympathetic. “Why not tell him that you had a talk with me, and I told you that my being turned on by other dudes is something I’ve been trying to fight, and that I’ll fight it even harder now that I’ve talked to you.” He was content to smirk at first, but then couldn’t keep himself from snickering.

Rex’s suggestion might have been born of sarcasm, but Osman was unable to come up with a better idea. His best hope was that Bud would take it as face value.

Bud phoned Osman at around 11 the next morning and said they’d meet at a particular diner right off the 118 at noon. Osman arrived on time to find Bud already there. “I was wondering if you were going to show up,” Bud said. Osman said he was sorry if Bud had been waiting long. A middle-aged waitress, with thinning, unnaturally red hair and unusually big gums, came over immediately and asked if they wanted coffee. Bud told her coffee was all they were probably going to have.

He gave Osman a look of displeased impatience and said, “Well?” He emptied four little packets of sugar into his coffee and stirred it while he listened. Osman said Rex had at first denied being gay, but then admitted it, and assured Osman he was doing his best to be otherwise.

“Pains me to hear it,” the waitress felt called upon to contribute. “Can I hot you up, hon?” Both men had taken a couple of sips of their coffee.

Bud tried to scowl her away, but it didn’t work. “I don’t remember anybody asking what pains you or doesn’t pain you…hon,” he said with an ugly look on his face.

“Scoot over, will you, hon,” she said to Osman, who somehow found himself complying without giving a milllisecond’s thought to how his doing so might enrage Bud.

“This idea that I dislike gays and lesbians just grinds the hell out of my gears,” she said. “Talk about putting words in somebody’s mouth! Leviticus 18:22 is so not a reflection of how I feel about this stuff. It reflects how some dude in the desert felt at a time when having lots of kids seemed like a really good idea. Safety in numbers — that whole thing, you know?”

Osman looked at Bob, but Bud was confused himself.

“And you are who, exactly?” Bud asked the waitress.

“TLTG, hon,” the waitress said. Bud and Osman looked at each other. “The Lord thy God, hon.”

“Get rid of this fucking crackpot,” Bud snarled at Osman, only to find that Osman, mothionless, was gaping at the waitress in what might have been amazement, but might well have been adoration.

“I understand you’re confused, hon,” the waitress told Bud, patting his arm. “You expect me to look as Michelangelo depicted me on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Well, the fact is I’ve never looked like that, at least that I can remember. I look a lot of different ways to different people. I’ve been told recently that I often look like a sleazy right wing political operative who falls asleep drunk in his clothes.”

Unbidden, she topped up Bud's coffee.

“As I said, Leviticus 12:22 grinds my gears. How can the same people who correctly believe me to have created the universe, including all the ships at sea and all the people on planet Earth, think I’d create something I, you know, abhorred? Not to get too graphic, but if I hadn’t intended anal intercourse to be fantastically pleasurable once.you learn to do it without discomfort, what would have kept me from tweaking human anatomy? It makes no sense at all.”

Osman, unnoticed by his two companions, had begun to weep, silently. His tears were tears of joy. It was his impression that the waitress was worried about having hurt Bud's feelings.

“Not that the so-called enlightened people don’t get on my nerves too, hon,” she said. “I mean, this whole LGBTQ business. You’re quite right to ridicule it. LGBTZRSTUVWYZ — I love that! Whose bright idea was it to add a Q to the original recipe, anyway? I mean, since when doesn’t bisexual adequately convey indecision?”

“Hey, any chance of getting hotted up over here?” another diner called from several booths nearer the entrance.

“Gotta go, hon,” the waitress told Bud as she slid out of the booth. “Let me just tell you this. I can’t stand hypocrites. If someone’s going to subscribe to Big Black Cock, that’s just fine with me, but don’t pretend to be Mr. Homophobe. That annoys me big time. And you know what I often do to TMs who annoy me?”

“TMs?” Bud wondered meekly. He seemed to have ceased to doubt that the waitress was who she said she was.

“Toxically Masculines, bright eyes.” She held up her index finger to indicate to the disgruntled caffeine enthusiast who needed hotting up that she’d be right over. “I give them prostate cancer, the inoperable kind. So lighten the fuck up, hon.”

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