"Call you, raise ten," The grey haired man in the polo shirt and knitted cardigan says to the table, looking at his cards with a sinking heart but still maintaining his usual poker face. Smoke hangs in the air of the old bar as the door opens, letting in a second or two of fresh air before closing again. A juke box can just about be heard churning out old tunes in the corner and the pling of pool balls hitting pool balls accompanies his despair.
"How's it going Dad?"
The man doesn't flinch when he hears the familiar voice behind him. He's not heard it in a while but every so often, maybe a once or twice a year, there it is. The voice knows where to find him, it's not difficult, the old man's not changed his routine in years.
"Could've had a couple of better hands. Say hello to the guys," The grey haired man instructs.
"Hi guys," Michael says, looking around the table.
"I'm out," Michael's father says, suddenly laying down his cards and getting up. "I was bluffing anyway. Where'd you want to sit Sonny Boy?"
"Here's good."
"Couple of your best single malts!" Michael's father orders as they sit down at the bar. "So how's that fancy job of yours?"
"My fancy job's just fine, I can't complain."
"Listen, I'm um, a little short, you know, the end of the month..."
Michael's been waiting for the usual spiel. It never takes the man long to hint at needing money. His father always calls it a fancy job in a condescending manner but it's not fancy enough for him to refuse the money Michael always offers him. Getting a thick white envelope out of his inside jacket pocket, Michael gives him the usual amount, all in cash.
There's no thanks voiced, there never is and Michael's not expecting any. The man's not going to change the habit of a lifetime now. Instead his father just looks around to make sure that his friends can't see him taking money off his kid and then pockets the envelope smoothly. Punching Michael on the arm in what he supposes is meant to be a friendly gesture, his father turns to him, looking him in the eye for the first time that evening.
"You're a good boy. I'm keeping strict accounts, every goddamn cent..."
It's the same patter that Michael's been hearing for years.
"I know."
"Mr Executive is treating me!" His father tells the bartender, ordering two more drinks. "Don't you work too hard now."
Michael nods slowly, "Thanks for the advice."
"You gotta leave some time for the ladies..."
"Oh I always leave time for the ladies," Michael reassures him.
"But don't let them tie you down," His father advises.
"Don't worry about me Dad."
"Because that what they all want to do, no matter what the hell they say!"
"I think I can handle it."
His father looks at him, weighing him up, "You know you and me we're a lot alike."
Michael agrees with him, nodding slowly, "We are."
"We weren't meant to settle down..." His father confides, again not a new conversation to either of them. In fact it's the same conversation they've been having for years, just regurgitated slightly differently every time. "...Sometimes I look in the mirror and I say 'Darryl Clifford you dumb son of a bitch, you should never have been a family man'."
YOU ARE READING
Queer as Muke
Fanfiction"The thing you need to know is, it's all about sex. It's true. In fact they say men think about sex every twenty-eight seconds. Of course that's straight men. With gay men it's every nine." Twenty nine year old advertising executive Michael Cliffor...
