The Final Curtain

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“He’s gone,” I said to myself last night, looking yonder across the back lane. Then taking a sip of red wine, I wiped a single tear from my eye, and closed the curtains. Returning to my couch, I reached for the remote and clicked on Rodger’s & Hammerstein’s “The Sound of Music.” Losing myself on an Austrian hillside, I felt a brief reprieve from sadness, until the Von Trapp children started singing their song. “So long,” I sang along, sobbing. “Farewell,” I choked on my next gulp of wine. “Auf wiedershen,” I thought about my attractive German friend Felix. Guten Tag Felix. “Goodnight,” I wailed. Pandemic Pete has moved. Yesterday morning, I could not help but notice a flurry of activity in his apartment as I waited for the coffee maker to beep. At first, I thought he was celebrating American Thanksgiving because it was really a family affair. In the kitchen, his mom puttered while his sibling’s brought life to a typically quiet living room. “I have never met the family before,” I poured a cup of dark roast and started a conversation with myself. “This is truly turning out to be quite a nice day.” Then, at approximately 11:03am everything changed. At first, I didn’t think much of it when the moving truck arrived. With rent prices soaring and the average cost of wine in a restaurant nearing $10,000 a glass, the end of the month is always a busy time in downtown Vancouver. > “It was then, I reasoned I should stick to nursing wine; however, even that still remains a challenge.” “Wait, where are they taking his plants?” I felt my mood shift and blood pressure rise. If I can tell you one thing about Pandemic Pete I know for certain, he is an excellent gardener. His blinds are always open because his entire apartment is filled with beautiful plants. For the last three years, I have watched him tend to them every Sunday afternoon with loving care. He even inspired me to test out my own green thumb! As you know, ever since 2014, I have been hesitant about plant caretaking. That was the year, of course, I was so busy managing The Meatball Hut [https://www.ruggedfox.com/misadventuresofruggedfox/2015/10/29/keep-calm-and-meatball-on.html], I failed to notice the plant I had been watering was fake. It was then, I reasoned I should stick to nursing wine; however, even that still remains a challenge. Well, wouldn’t you know it, at the time of this writing I have half-a-dozen plant friends currently in residence. The mood has been a bit tense, as of late, as two of them are on life support. I may or may not have, unknowingly, drowned them. Last month, when Mama Fox was in town for the weekend, she was none too happy with me. At 38-years-old, I received a scolding about how plants are not nearly as thirsty as me. As I watched his apartment empty, I could not bear to look any longer. At sunset, he shut the blinds for the first, and last time. It is true, we first laid eyes on each other [https://www.ruggedfox.com/misadventuresofruggedfox/2020/5/19/fox-interrupted] in March 2020 cheering for the front-line workers. During the tumultuous lockdowns that followed, his steadfast routine served as anchor for me. While most days, I woke up on the living room floor [https://www.ruggedfox.com/misadventuresofruggedfox/2020/12/4/the-view-from-the-floor], he sat working from his kitchen table. And while yes, it is true, as restrictions eased, my attention turned towards apartments elsewhere [https://www.ruggedfox.com/misadventuresofruggedfox/2023/5/6/the-fox-and-the-stud]. That said, I will never forget the time we never spent together. Goodbye Pete, or whatever your name actually is.

Happy Six Month + One Day Anniversary

Heavens to Betsy! I had to dust off my keyboard this morning, before wiping away the shame at the thought of calling myself a “writer.” I must implore you to forgive me for my flaccid fingertips. If there was a little blue pill I could take to heal my creative ails, I promise I would. I am writing to you now (barely) from my dining room table at the Fox Den. Sipping a delicious cup of dark roast, I am wrapped in a cozy L.L Bean sweater I bought 40% off. Outside on this November day, the sky is a familiar grey. Inside the apartment is quiet, apart from the slumbering sounds of Bow, formerly known as my “younger boyfriend.” At this moment, I can tell you with casual warmth, I have been off the market for nine months and eight days. I can also tell you who is counting: me. It feels like decades ago, that I would spend the evenings scrolling through endless faces of strange men to encounter. Now, I pass the time on my phone each night, sending countless messages to one man asking, “Why aren’t you home yet?” I know from my socials, it may appear this relationship has been one much-liked Instagram photo after the next, and it has. However, that is not to say, there have been many deleted What’s App messages along the way. > “At this moment, I can tell you with casual warmth, I have been off the market for nine months and eight days. I can also tell you who is counting: me. ” Bow and I celebrated the occasion for our six-month plus one-day anniversary at a fancy Italian restaurant downtown. Dressed to the nines, we checked in for our 3:00 PM reservation for Happy Hour. Taking a seat on the picturesque patio next to an Italian marble statue with a trickling waterfall, the afternoon sun casts a radiant glow on our white tablecloth. “This place is so nice,” I said to Bow, as the host placed down our menus. “You remembered your gift card, right?” Placing his hand over his brow, he simultaneously disregarded my question and thanked the wait staff. When two glasses of complimentary prosecco arrived next, I could not wait to raise a toast. “Cheers babe,” I said, “to breaking the six-month…” Before I could say another word, I watched the blood drain from Bow’s face in terror. Beads of nervous sweat racing down his forehead, I noticed his champagne flute begin to shake mid-air. All of a sudden, it felt like a bomb was going to go off. At that moment, Bow knew what I could no longer deny. From the late night/early morning, we first met, I confessed to him that for 39 years on this planet, I had been subjected to a horrific “six-month curse.” Not once, had I managed to successfully see a relationship last longer than half a year’s time. In the first few weeks, we were together, he reassured me that I was just being dramatic and had nothing to worry about. But then, as more time passed, and the seasons changed, we both discovered tragically, that there was no curse at all – it was just me! The closer he tried to get to my heart – the faster I ran! Literally. In month five, I was setting world records sprinting out of gay bars on Davie Street one Friday night after the next. I swear, other gays would look at me on the dancefloor and then check the time, thinking “When is Rugged going to run?” While it is true, that I am a fan of an occasional dramatic entrance and exit; I pause when one begins to build a reputation for it. My glass still raised in the air; I pivoted. “Cheers to making it… Facebook official,” I said loud and proud. “Cheers honey,” Bow smiled. As our glasses clinked there was no explosion, not one piece of shattered glass. Well, wouldn’t you know! After several glasses of happy hour pink wine, one bowl of mixed olives, and a Caesar salad, we failed to notice the flashing blue and red lights outside. As we paid the bill and stood up to leave, the restaurant manager calmly escorted us through the kitchen and out the back door. Standing in the alley, we wondered if this was some kind of special VIP treatment. “Gentlemen,” the manager said sternly, “please leave now, quickly. There is a bomb threat across the street, and they have shut down the entire block.” “Are we on a movie set?” I asked Bow, nearly fumbling over my brown wing tips. “No Rugged,” he took my arm, “now let’s leave before we do blow up.”

18 de nov de 20241 h 0 min

The Final Curtain

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