When I was in junior high back in the 50s, Father had an antique business among other things. And Ray and Phil would come in from Atlantic City at least one Saturday a month to pick up items for their collections. . .
About mid-morning Ray pulls his van off the highway and into our drive. He opens the door on his driver’s side, and a tarnished silver candelabra falls out. He sits it back awkwardly on an old captain’s trunk behind his seat.
“Careful there, you clumsy old fart,” says Phil, kidding his pal as he climbs out the passenger side. “That piece of hardware is going to pay next month’s rent if you don’t dent it up too much before we get home.”
“You mean get it home to that rich, old, widow lady you’ve been schmoozin’ down the shore.” Ray retorts. The van is already half full of more old stuff. Ray and Phil are in the middle of their Saturday buying trip. They visit auctions, estate sales, and suppliers like Father. They are in good moods and enjoying their Saturday.
Inside they haggle with Father over some decoys and fancy wood turnings to mend broken legs on other furniture. After settling on their choices and the prices, I begin loading their purchases through the back door of the van. Ray and Phil are by the passenger door and think that I cannot see them, but I can through the sideview mirror. Then Phil does a strange thing. He leans over, touches Ray’s shoulder and gently kisses him on the lips. Imagine that, two bald men with pot bellies kissing. It is a tender kiss. Not a kiss like I see in some movies with a lot of grabbing between the man and woman. I never see my parents kiss this way. Their kisses are more like good-morning pecks, a formality. In fact Ray and Phil show more affection for each other than I ever see from my parents.
The two men hold it until they see me staring. Then Ray rushes around to the driver’s side and hops in. I slam the back door shut. “All loaded.” I mumble, and they drive off.
I go back into Dad’s shop to finish sweeping up. As I come through the door, Dad looks at me with a knowing expression on his face. “Just like three-dollar bills,” he says.
“I don’t get it,” I say.
“Those two, son. They’re as queer as a three-dollar bill,” he says.
On Monday in the schoolyard, I tell my friend about the kissing men. He brushes it off and tackles another one of our pals in a game we call “smear the queer.”
migrating geese fly on
one old and dieing stays back—
its mate abides
