Prologue:

Love is a sticky commodity.

Songs are sung about love. Poetry and novels are written to express love. While love is illusive and hard to define, love is never the same twice, because each time the lovers are new to each other, as love rises in an uncertain world.

Like the people involved, love is always in flux, changing, being modified as lovers are altered by love. You can search for love or let it find you. There are times when love is as far away as the moon and the stars, and there are times when love hits you like a ton of bricks.

Love may be hard to define, but you know it when you fall in love.

Brandon loved as a young man. Love and lust were in the air and all around him and his lover Casey. They loved each other, they loved their friends, they loved life and the lust love created. Some love is not forever, but true love always is.

Brandon and Casey lost at love. Brandon was young, successful, and smart enough to make a good living. He didn't forget Casey. He didn't forget love. He was sure love would find him again, but at his age, time was running out.

Brandon, jaded by the living he has done, has become cynical and bored. The illusiveness of love proves to be persistent in his case. Over the years, he learned to live without love. He doesn't have a bad life, but life has become a routine that doesn't excite him any longer.

Clifford flew in from Paris. He needs a drink after what has been a trying day. He goes to Stanley's Liquor Emporium, because he remembers it from earlier on in his life, but when he reaches for his wallet. It isn't there, and a bad day turns worse.

He needs a drink in the worse way. He does the only thing he can think of to do.

Turning to the man next to him at the end of the bar, he inquiries about securing a loan.

"I know you don't know me. I haven't been here in years, but I just came in from Paris, and my pocket has been picked. It has been a rather bad day, and I need a drink. Would you…?"

Will Clifford get his drink? Will Brandon pony up for the far too expensive booze?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

70 Plus 50
A Rick Beck Story



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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The club was nondescript in its appearance. The sidewalk passes the stairs leading down into the dark before making a left turn to reach the door to go into Stanley's. There had never been a light at the bottom of the stairs, because it was a bar only people in the know knew was there. You had to be told by someone of a similar nature to know where to go.

It was an out of the way spot. It was from another era. Originally, when you took the stairs to the bottom, you might need to feel you way to the door to knock.

When the door opened, you said, "Joe sent me."

No one knew Joe, but the big bouncer would step aside if you gave the correct callsign. If you didn't say the right thing, you would be told, "You've got the wrong place, Jack."

If it turned out to be the law, the bouncer pushed a button and blocked the way to give the patrons of Stanley's time to go out using hidden stairs at the back of the bar.

Stanley's opened during the Volstead Act period, when bars and liquor were illegal. It was owned by bootleggers, and it was raided twice, but once Stanley's opened, it never closed its doors, except to remodel from time to time. It changed hands from time to time, and no one knew who owned the bar but Chauncy, the bartender.

It went from a speakeasy during prohibition, to an equally illegal enterprise in the 1950s. The owners now catered to gay men who met at Stanley's for drinks. It wasn't quite the bustling business now that it was the people who were illegal and not the booze.

I remember my first time at Stanley's. I was told where the steps were that led down to the bar. I wasn't told to watch my step, but when the steps made a left turn, I went straight ahead and nearly did a face plant in the brick wall. I felt my way down two steps on the left and I could see faint light through the glass in the door.

I felt for the doorknob, and I let myself in. Only after opening the door, did I hear the music and muffled voices, over the clinking of glasses. I had found Stanley's.

I didn't know to duck at that time. No one told me about a low hanging heat duct at five foot ten inches above the floor. I was between five nine and five ten. My head did not touch the low hanging heat duct, but I could feel it was there just before I turned right out of the entryway to get to the bar.

It was my home field. These were my people. It took me twenty-two years to find the queers, but I didn't know I was gay for sixteen of those years.

I walked straight to the first seat I came to at the end of the bar, as everyone ignored me. I ignored them, except we all knew how to watch someone out of the corner of our eyes.

I wasn't much of a drinker, but if I had to go to bars to meet men, I needed to learn to drink.

Once I became more successful, and I moved a block away from Stanley's, I decided it was best if I limited myself to three drinks, because after three drinks, I could make it home okay. Drink four witched me over into the danger zone. Maybe I would make it home okay, maybe I wouldn't.

I lived in a warehouse that was converted into lofts for artists and writers during the 60s and 70s, when everyone was supposed to be more artistic as well as high on drugs. In the 80s, during Clearwater's revival, it became a beach town that was more than a suburb of Tampa. Tourists and students were happy to make it one of Florida's hot spots. The warehouse that became a place for artists to live cheaply while doing their art, became a high-end group of apartments, after remodeling again, after changing hands.

When my realtor showed it to me, I didn't even remember Stanley's was a block away. I could walk there in five minutes sober. It became a bit trickier after a few drinks. I had a few too many drinks at that time in my life. I wasn't looking to live near a queer bar, but once I realized Stanley's was still there, I figured I needed to make use of it,

I was well situated. I was a partner in a firm that bought and sold military hardware. Business was good, and I drank too much, and Stanley's was too close, and I stopped carrying cash, because Stanley's did not sell booze on credit. When I left work, I intended to have a few drinks on the way home, and I intended to stop at Stanley's. Marge, my secretary, does not describe how much she does for me, hands me a crisp ten-dollar bill after I tell her I'm stopping at Stanley's.

Ten bucks buys me three drinks, and I have enough to tip the bartender.

I drank a bit too much too often, and Marge, being Marge, advised me to make our current way of handling it. I stop once or twice a week, and I always make it home these days.

I make a point of not stopping at Stanley's Thursdays. On Thursdays, it's heavy metal night. It only took me once to realize my brain immediately switched to headbanger mode when I opened the door to go in one Thursday night. Don't get me wrong. I was a headbanger. I rocked with the best of them in the day, but my day was gone, and with no one but me over forty in the bar, I wondered how any of them knew what metal is.

My metal days were over, and luckily, Stanley's only did the zombie apocalypse mode on Thursday. For my own safety, I never went to Stanley's Thursday. Had I gotten back into the metal head scene, I might never have made it home again.

You always know when a new bar dweller arrives. He is rubbing a red spot on his forehead if he's over five foot ten. For those of us of a certain age, we duck whether we need to or not. The sign has been there as long as Stanley's, and it looks it, but there isn't enough light to even see the sign at night. I'm told a government official ordered the sign to be posted.

In speakeasy day, I imagine the bouncer would say, "Watch your head. Duck under the heating vent if you are taller than five foot ten."

Maybe not. They are growing taller people now than they did in speakeasy days, and I sit sideways on my stool to keep anyone from sneaking up on me, but it also allows me to see who came in. If they rub their head, they're new to Stanley's, or they have short memories.

The rumor is, they were sued over the low hanging ceiling years ago, when they got Clyde Tolstoy on the stand, the prosecutor started out, "Is your club the notorious Stanleys, in the west side. Isn't it a notorious queer hang out?"

The man who filed the complaint leaned to say something to his lawyer.

His lawyer said, "My client wishes to withdraw any and all actions he has filed against Stanley's and Mr. Tolstoy."

"Case dismissed," the judge said, banging his gavel.

Right afterward, the foam rubber and the sign went up. I remembered that which is surprising because I was maybe twenty-two. I came from town to go to Stanley's in those days. It was a bar I liked. Now, it was the bar close to where I lived.

Once you get beyond the low hanging ceiling into the club, it opens up into a fairly large area that has tables and stools where you can sit next to the wall where a sideboard gives you room to place your drink while you make eyes at teenyboppers cute for their own good. They imagine they'll look precious forever. I don't bother breaking the bad news to them. They'll find out soon enough.

Being past my prime, I don't go to Stanleys for the eye candy, and I only leave the office with enough cash for three drinks. My chances of making it home safely decrease after three.

I rarely tempt fate by having four. I once drank too much, but I drink no more than three, and I have many more happy endings to my days. I always manage to get home safely and alone, because men of a certain age do it that way out of habit.

I confess, when I drank too much, I began looking at the dance floor, and the beautiful people who sat next to it, thinking I was still in the game. Truth be known, I haven't been in that game since the 80s, when Casey died. There was a lot of dying then, how I survived it, blind dumb luck. I loved Casey, not knowing what it meant or how illusive love could be.

Casey died in 86. If he had been the only one dying, I might have done better than I did. He wasn't the only one. By the time the dying stopped, I stood alone, the only survivor among ten or twelve of us who partied hardy together. I lost my appetite for funerals by the time Casey was gone.

I drank more and socialized less, after Casey. I didn't plan It that way. It's how I survived.

I had been to Stanley's by that time, but it wasn't a place Casey and I went, and so now, when I go, there are no memories of us dancing and camping it up with our friends. Stanley's did have a dance floor, and while I was a fancy dancer in my day, I more watched people dance these days.

I buried myself in my work, and it was a fine job, and I met people and went into business with two of them, It was all business.

Next thing I know, the years have passed me by. They didn't so much pass me, as they slipped away while I wasn't paying any attention to the hands of time. I was young. I had plenty of time, and then, I wasn't young, and time was running out.

Where does time go?

Stanley's is a pleasant place. The people aren't too rowdy, and they leave a dinosaur like me alone. I'm not the only older gentlemen who drinks at Stanley's. We know each other and nod, hold up our drinks and smile. We're harmless but we're often too thirsty.

The beautiful people know we are there, but they're too busy waiting for Mr. Right to show up and take them away from all this. They sit, long legs dangling down from the stool. One toe delicately touches the dance floor, as a signal that they dance, if you're hot, young, and virile enough to tilt their desirability meter, they might even dance with you.

In a way, some of them are like us older gents, except they still wait for Mr. Right. That game ended for me a long time ago, so ignore my observations, because I go to Stanley's Liquor Emporium for the booze, and I am most certainly impaired.

Stanley's is the oldest gay bar in the region, and during spring break, other young beauties might be directed here, but most swingers want to be in the middle of town, where the action is. For that reason, Stanley's has mostly a regular crowd who favor its atmosphere.

I wasn't there for the dancing or to dream about having a beautiful twink in my bed. I am there for the liquor. I go there once or twice a week. My work is as predictable as my social life, and on Monday and Friday my days are longest, requiring a drink or three to unwind. The other nights I go directly home from work, and order to eat in. By eight I'm curling up with Stuart Woods or Robert B. Parker. I find both authors to write fast moving and easy to digest prose. I can read Clancy, but he's strictly Sunday afternoon reading, and I delve into Hammett, Chandler, and Rex Stout when I want some gusto in my prose.

For some reason I like stories involving the gritty detectives of the 40s and 50s. Their authenticity oozes off the pages while they sleuth out the solution to whatever case they have been hired to solve. Their clients are rarely without guilt and some underhanded double dealing, but once paid, the private dicks do their job regardless of how slimy the client happens to be.

For me, this is more like the real world I'm familiar with. Business has me meeting with all kinds of people, but most have an angle to work. They take advantage where they can, and I close my eyes to their slight of hand.

I've been in business long enough to know all the angles, and I allow my clients to think they got one over on me from time to time.

Life has taken on a more polite demeanor, if you are being taken these days, it's with a smile. The days of old have given way to the grifter, who is often professing to be a man of the cloth, because preachers are seen as honorable men.

The more honorable you seem, the smoother the sting.

I suppose literature whisks me away from the mundane life I lead, and by Monday I'm ready to charge back into my office, where Marge will be waiting with today's appointments.

When I leave the office, if Stanleys is on my mind, I ask Marge for ten bucks. It is just enough for three drinks and a proper tip for the bartender. Luckily, the bar starts just inside the door and three paces to the east. I take the first seat I come to, and I'm hardly even in Stanleys, not that anyone would notice otherwise.

I sip my drinks while no one but the bartender cares. I hand him my ten bucks, and he puts the drink and the change down in front of me. Each time I need a refill, he deducts the proper amount from the change in front of me. When I leave, he gets the $2.50 for a tip.

He could simply take the ten buckets and ring it up as soon as I put it down. I always have ten bucks. He always ends up with ten bucks, and after three drinks, I get up, and after I get my balance, I walk home.

I have friends, you understand. We don't drink together, and I don't drink every night. I have a canasta night, and I have a friend who loves Film Noir as much as I do. When the Strand has Film Noir month in April, we go and watch the black and white films with relish, no matter how many times we've seen them.

I especially like Sam Spade, Phillip Marlowe, or Nero Wolfe. Discussing what we've seen over coffee or a drink is not out of order, even if my desire has gotten up and left, my ability to communicate hasn't gone anywhere, yet, and we can go on for hours after we leave the theater after watching a Sam Spade double-feature.

I have been homosexual all my life. It all started with Herman Henderson 3rd. I was in the 5th grade, Mrs Randalhassles' room. Over the years I was hated by some of the best people. You could depend on them to be sure to say something nasty about the homosexual condition. Since I was one, I took it personally. I didn't like them either.

I didn't know why they picked me to hate, but I knew it neither started nor ended with me. If there was one thing there was plenty of to go around, it was hatred.

When I fell in love with Casey, well, he was the cat's meow. It was all peaches and cream. Then, the dying started, and now I work a lot, read a lot, and I sometime go to Stanley's.

Once a man is fifty, looks are off the table. A little gray hair, and the added weight that distorts the facial features, isn't going to put you on anyone's dance card. No, you better be an interesting conversationalist, or you two might be having a few too many and forget where you left your house or car, and by this point, if you drove to Stanley's, you need a cab. I didn't need a cab because I lived one block up and I crossed the street without incident on most evenings.

I didn't forget how to dance. I lost my dance partner. I worry I might forget how. When you reach your fifties and then, your sixties, you forget a lot of stuff. I spend too much time pausing, trying to remember what it was I was talking about. It's a bit disconcerting, but you get use to a lot of things as you grow older.

Yes, I know there are endless youth restoring medications and across the counter vitamins, minerals, and secret potions that will make you feel twenty, and look seventeen. I tend to ignore youth restoring potions. It's not easy knowing what is in secret concoctions.

It's a bit like all these people wanting to make you rich. They make their money selling the secret to getting rich. Rich people are too busy spending their money to worry about making you rich. Their secret is how to get you to open your wallet to pad their bank account.

I suppose that when you grow older, you can grow cynical, but it beats growing delusional. The good thing about getting senile, you're the last to know.

With Marge in my corner, if I go around the bend, she'll come to walk me home, after a stop at Stanley's, I hope.

I never fell for other people's get rich schemes. I earned my money the old-fashioned way, I worked for a living, and I lived quite well. My life was good and I didn't miss any meals, even when I mostly had them delivered if I didn't eat on the way home.

Once my day is done, I curl up with a good novel once I'm home. It's not exciting, but it keeps me out of trouble, and I don't mind my own company.

As I said, I'm not here for the twinks. I'm here for the liquor.

"Evening, Brandon," Chauncy greets me by name. "The Usual?"

"Yeah, C, Bacardi and Coke."

On slow nights, before nine, I make it a point to leave for home by nine, C will stand at the end of the bar and chat. C has stories. He's been everywhere and done everyone who is doable. He says he lives in a penthouse on the beach, and he only tends to bar for laughs, after making his money years ago. It's a nice story. It could even be true.

Like anything anyone says to me in a bar, I take it with a grain of salt if I don't know better.

Oh, I'm not complaining. By the way, I'm Brandon. I have no complaints. Men my age tended not to come out, until out wasn't dangerous. I recall a time when anyone you met had a different name the next time you saw him. I never figured that one out, until a man in a bar in Mobile pointed to a car sitting across the street from McNamara's.

"See that car," he told me, as I stood to one side so others might get to the bar.

"The one with tinted windows?"

"Yeah."

"Watch the driver's side window."

"I can't see anything," I said, with a laugh.

"You will, and you won't forget it when you do."

I looked at the car window, and just before the door opened, and another guy walks into the bar, there is a flash that lights up some middle-aged guy with a camera."

"He's the Baptist preacher. He posts those pictures at his church, under a sign that says: Fornicators. If you're gay, and you come in here, your picture might show up in his church."

It wasn't necessary to say anything else. I was flabbergasted. How many bars had I gone into around the country? I wondered how many times I had been photographed, and then I began to understand a guy named George when I first met him. He was Jack the next time I saw him, and he became Jeffery as fast as that.

I had been introduced to the kind of man who made being gay dangerous. That was in the seventies when cops went into gay bars and picked someone out to beat the shit out of, and they left laughing. It was an object lesson.

"You're lucky we don't arrest you. How'd you like your picture on the front page under the caption, "Faggot caught in queer bar."

I had been told those things happened, but until that night in Mobile, Alabama, they were stories other men told. That was long before Casey, but it isn't something you forget. I had no stories like that. Everyone assumed I was straight, until I came out, and then, I only told people with a need to know that I was gay.

I knew where I stood, and it made me careful. People who came along before I did, had it a lot rougher than I had it, but I was aware it had become easier to be gay in some places, and it wasn't that safe for it in other places.

Yes, gay men do tend to look for the young and the restless. The tricks who are no longer young, but act like beauty queens, are old enough to know what time the bar closes.

I don't stop at Stanley's often, but there are those days you need a drink before going home. I don't mind people, and I suppose being around my own kind is a comfort. Seeing C and having him come right over like we're long-lost friends gives me a nice feeling.

My idea of a good night, after stopping at Stanley's, is finding my way home. It's a nice place that was once a warehouse. A developer bought it and made a dozen lofts out of it. The artists and writers of that day lived cheaply and did whatever art pleased them.

When that scene faded during the 80s, another developer bought the building. He turned the once warehouse into ten upscale apartments. When the owner died, the apartments went up for sale. He wasn't asking as much as they were worth, and I bought mine.

I bought my unit because I liked it enough to make it my permanent home. Having Stanley's a block away didn't hurt its appeal.

I bought my apartment because I could afford it by that time. Other tenants weren't as fortunate, and people I knew disappeared. I don't know who lives in the building now.

I live on the top floor of a four floor walkup. It can be challenging getting home after an evening at Stanley's, but so far so good.

I have nothing to complain about.

I have lived, loved, never missed a meal, and I live as close to Pleasantville as it gets. Marge knows my job better than I do, and she cares about me. I do what I please when I please. What more can you ask for while you are growing older?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This particular evening followed a particularly trying day. It started with oversleeping and rushing out without a cup of coffee to get my balance under control. It's not life or death, you understand, but it is the difference between paying attention and being distracted.

Without my coffee, I am easily distracted. My focus just isn't up to most tasks, which starts with getting to work to act like I know I have a job. I don't answer to anyone, but I do have the good sense to bring Taylor in on any major decisions. He's my partner, but on most days, we don't cross paths.

On that Tuesday, I missed enough phone calls to set me back an hour or two. It was necessary to return the calls if I hoped to keep doing business. I've been at it long enough that I knew not to oversleep, but when I do, it throws my day out of kilter.

That's the kind of day that makes it necessary for me to stop at Stanley's on my way home.

Once I got to work, and Marge brought me my coffee. Marge is my secretary, but she was so involved in the business, she knew my job better than I do. She did my job better than I do, and she knows when I need a cup of coffee to get my day under control.

Marge makes good coffee, but it's already too late to start the day off right. Making it through the day at Taylor, Swift, and Sikorsky, I'm the Swift part of the trio, but on mornings I don't get my coffee soon enough, I'm a far slower version of Brandon Swift.

We are a branch of Lockheed Martin, and that's the Sikorsky end of the trio. Without Sikorsky, there is no Taylor, Swift, & Sikorsky.

I never see Sikorsky, he's he brains behind the operation, and he sends the clients to Taylor and Swift, even on days like today, when I'm not all that swift.

While I can come and go as I please, I am in business to do what most people in business are doing. When I'm not on the ball, I miss things, and lose sales, and a businessman should not do that if he wants to stay in business. I do, and I needed a drink once I left work.

George Sikorsky was behind the buying and selling of military hardware to the growing list of military contractors trying to get their hands on some of the more than 500-billion-dollar war chest the Pentagon had to play with each year.

I know, it's more like a trillion these days, but I like thinking about days of old when the entire military budget was a quarter of today's budget. In days of old, the soldiers did the cooking, cleaning, and all the jobs that make an army an army.

Then, someone got the bright idea, "Why don't we hire people to do the things our army does, and pay them a lot of money, and we'll only take a small kickback for thinking up such a lucrative racket?"

Now, the military budget had hit a trillion, and some employee of a contractor folds the laundry instead of the soldiers folding it. I'm one of the people who hires the contractor to hire a minimum wage employee who knows how to fold stuff.

I was in the process of dealing with a rather unruly Tuesday, and once I caught up on my calls, it was going home time, which is any time I say it is.

I was already planning my stop at Stanley's, and Marge gave me my ten dollars. It wasn't quite six, and I went into the bar just before seven. It would be slow enough for Chauncy to stop to chat, once he delivered my drink. The bar would be half empty. I can drink three drinks at a casual pace and be on my way home before nine, when the bar got crowded.

Clifford didn't know anything about my limit, or the ten-dollar bill Marge handed me when I was leaving work. Clifford isn't easy to explain. How we got acquainted, which isn't really the word that describes Clifford. He didn't so much walk into my life as he borrowed his way into it when I wasn't paying much attention.

I was drinking my second drink just after eight, and Chauncy had customers to attend to. When Clifford came in, I was sitting at the end of the bar, half facing the dance floor, and I turned my head and saw him arrive. He was about six feet, and he wasn't rubbing his forehead. He must have been here before and knew about the low hanging heat duct.

Now, I've been on the pickup end of the pickup more than once, and I have got to say, I stopped going there a decade ago. Like I said, when I go to a bar, it's to drink, and did I mention I stopped at Stanley's on my way home from work Tuesday?

I knew going down the stairs into the dark entryway was a mistake, but I made a lot of mistakes Tuesday. I ducked, even though I'm five nine. Never hurts to be careful.

With a rum and Coke in my hand, Clifford came up to stand beside the stool where I sat.

"Evening," he said, seeing me watching him walk over.

"Evening," I said.

He was maybe fifty. He was tall and rather slim for that age. His suit was more expensive than my best suits, which were strictly for business, and his suit was obviously tailored.

He stood next to my barstool, but he didn't sit on the empty stool next to him. His fingers drummed the counter as his impatience showed.

I turned to see Chauncy tending to people at the other end of the long oak bar, and I listened to Clifford's fingers drumming the bar.

No, I didn't know his name was Clifford yet, but I'm getting to that.

Clifford noticed me. I noticed him, and the man wanted a drink like yesterday.

"He'll be right here," I reassured the nervous drinker.

"Thanks," he said, drumming away.

"Old Rip Van Winkel," he said, as Chauncy got his eye on him, while walking our way.

He sounded like he knew what he was doing.

Chauncy did a double take.

"You do have Old Rip?"

"I do, but only because the owner drinks it. I've never sold a shot to a customer. You do know that is some pricy booze, and we mark it up to get our money's worth."

I knew Old Rip Van was a bourbon, but Rip and I didn't travel in the same circles. I gave Clifford the once over a second time. He wasn't a bad looking dude, but he seemed thin.

"Well," Clifford said.

He really sounded impatient now.

"The owner gets it wholesale. You pay full price. Excuse me for mentioning the retail price, but I'll pour a shot when you show me $25.00."

Clifford didn't blink.

I coughed after flinching.

"Let me pay you in advance, My Good Man," he said, seeking to speed things up. "And don't get to far away. I'm going to need two. It's been one of those days."

He reached for a wallet that wasn't in his hand when he took it out of his pocket.

Clifford was 50ish. If I close one eye, he could have been 40, but with both my eyes open, he was 50 or thereabouts. He was smooth, when his hand came up empty. I was really interested now. This was better than a double feature. I had to see what came next. I was sure I had seen this movie before.

This is when Clifford is at his best. I've got to admit, I thought he might drink booze that was way out of my social class.

He was standing next to me. We were practically rubbing shoulders. Even so, I didn't see his next move coming.

Clifford said to me, "I just flew in from Paris, they lost my luggage at Tampa International, and my pocket has been picked."

He searched himself to prove his wallet was gone.

"Could you help a friend out here," Clifford said. "I'm Clifford Smith from Miami. That's my business is in Miami. I'm from up the coast. It isn't far from Miami."

I found him quite believable. Clifford was very good.

If I was prone to such pleas, I might have paid for his drink.

I had to make sure he was talking to me, but it was only me and Chauncy, and C was already reluctant to pour such pricy booze, and he wasn't the kind of bartender that was going to take someone's word for payment at a later date.

Most bartenders had heard it all. I certainly had.

"The owner measures that bottle every time he takes a drink. There better be payment in the cash drawer if I sell a drop," Chauncy reminded him.

"I can pay you back, but it will be days getting my cards canceled, replaced, and to have some walking around money. I can't believe how bad a day it has been. I need a drink."

I was fortunate to have Marge. If I needed a drink, I was sure to have ten bucks on me.

He was looking straight at me when he said, "If you'll loan me the proper amount, I'll be forever in your debt,"

He was almost too sincere.

"I assure you, I am good for it."

"I'm sure you are, My Good Man," I said as an advisory, "but what you see on the bar is my entire bankroll. One more drink, and I leave the change on the bar for Chauncy. I'll try to make my way home."

The five dollars wasn't a downpayment on a shot of Old Rip if I did buy the man a drink.

I had looked Cliff over, and for a man his age, he wasn't bad looking. In fact, he was a bit thin for a middle-aged man of his size.

"I also make it a point to never ask for booze that requires me to take out a loan to drink it. As you can see, that's what is left of my allowance."

Clifford looked at the five-dollar bill before looking at me again. I could see him trying to process the word allowance and put it together with the five bucks.

"Tell you what. You look like an honest fellow. I have enough for one more drink before I go home. If you'll settle for Seagram's, I think we can get a shot of that out of Chauncy, and my five will cover it with a suitable tip for his trouble. I can survive on two drinks tonight."

"You are?" Clifford turned his attention to me.

His hand was extended for shaking or for me to put my fiver in it. I had two drinks, and I suddenly wasn't certain I hadn't told him I was going to buy his drink.

"I was not born yesterday. I have enough for one more of these, and it's time for me to get to bed," I told my new friend who just flew in from Paris.

"Maybe I have a bill in one of my pockets. I need a drink," he said, searching himself again.

It was then he took a first-class ticket out of his pocket. He flew first class from Paris to Tampa International Airport. His plane landed two hours ago. How'd he end up at Stanleys? Why did he end up at Stanley's?

He wasn't lying about flying in from Paris. That meant his pocket was probably picked.

"Seagram's has never killed anyone. A lot of people drink it," I said.

Chauncy came back from the other end of the bar. It was the kind of thing he did if someone tried to put the bite on him. He wasn't sure what I might do, but he was a bartender, not a banker.

"Seagram's," Clifford said. "A shot of Seagram's, please."

"You found your wallet," C said, not making a move toward the bourbon.

"He's buying," Clifford explained.

Chauncy looked at me. He shook his head.

I nodded

"One shot of Seagram's coming up."

Perhaps I had misjudged the young man. Few people I know ever flew in from Paris. As I mentioned, I didn't like being taken, and maybe he did drink Old Rip, and he did look like a man who had a rough day.

I knew the feeling. I could hold my own on two drinks for one night.

Chauncy set the shot in front of me. I slid it to Clifford, and he threw it back like a pro.

I was broke and he'd get no more liquor out of me. I had some principles, and Chauncy was getting his usual tip, no matter how well off he bragged about being.

After he threw it back, Clifford coughed for a few minutes. His eyes watered, and he turned to thank me for saving his life. While he was coughing, I wasn't sure I had.

Rarely had two and half bucks gone so far. I nodded, expecting him to try his luck elsewhere, but he stood fast. He picked up his plane ticket and put it in his pocket.

"Here," Clifford said, handing me his watch. "It's a $1500.00 time piece. I'm at the Ritz Carlton. I hate owing anyone anything. I am good for it. I'm not a mooch or a lush. You can return it to me tomorrow, and I'll get an advance at my hotel. It'll take a week to get cash if I try to get all my cards canceled. I'll get my office to take care of it. That will be faster."

"Cliff, I trust you. I wouldn't sleep tonight if I had your watch to worry about."

I slid the watch next to his hand. He did not pick it up, and even lying on the counter, it made me nervous. Anyone could make a grab for it and get gone fast, as long as he wasn't over five ten.

"Sorry I didn't have the resources to buy you your brand," I said, feeling bad for him.

Yeah, I knew there were millions of stories in the Naked City, but we were in Clearwater, and he looked like it had been a long rough day. I knew exactly what that felt like. It wouldn't hurt me to be charitable toward my fellow man. I think that's in the bible.

I don't think Seagram's made it into the bible, but maybe Old Rip did.

"I appreciate what you did. I didn't need the Rip Van Winkel. It's just what I'm in the habit of ordering. I forgot my situation, and sometimes you just want what you want, you know?

"Don't I know it," I said.

"You local, Brandon, is it?"

"Yeah, my friends call me Brand."

"Max Brand was a writer. Wrote some very good western novels. He created Dr Kildare," Cliff said.

"You're a reader?" I asked.

"I love literature. Max Brand was actually Frederick Faust."

"My word," I said. "Faust was an old German magician."

"I knew that. You're a reader?"

"I am. Beats sitting home alone every night," I said. "I head off into the wild blue yonder, and I ride with Mosby's Raiders for adventure, and I sail with Ahab for a dash of salt air."

"You sound like me, Brand. I haven't been in town for quite a while. I did remember Stanley's from my younger years. I decided I wanted to visit before settling in for a few boring days before I look for digs. I've been in Paris for too long, and let me tell you, the City of Lights looks nothing like Clearwater, but I had some good years here. Thought I might take a stroll down memory lane, you know?

"You were living in Paris?"

"Business. I needed to attend to it myself. Couldn't send anyone else. I was there for a bit, now, I fly back and forth. I just decided I wanted to be back home for a while."

"You lived in Clearwater?"

"I went to school here. I lived a few miles from Stanley's. It was the first gay bar I went to."

"Ritz Carlton?" I asked.

"Don't get the wrong idea. I remembered the name. I never stayed there before, but I wanted a place for when I got on the ground. I didn't know what time I would get in, and this is spring break, or it used to be. I thought there might be no room in the Inn. I long ago lost track of friends I had here. Too much business, and too little socializing. One loses touch with the human factor, and how you can become alone in the world, if not lonely."

"I hadn't noticed, but this is a bit out of the way for the beach crowd. Can't remember the last time I was at the beach. You lose interest in the pretty boy parade once you're my age."

"You're what, sixty, sixty-five. You aren't old," Clifford said.

"Tell my aching back and swollen feet that. They'll be glad to hear it," I said.

He laughed.

"I soak my feet when they get too tender," he told me.

"You're what, fifty. You shouldn't be having swollen feet yet. My feet only started doing their impression of the Pillsbury Dough Boy in the last year. When I get home at night, I'm too tired to soak them. Just want to get prone," I told him.

"I'm forty-nine. It was a long flight," he explained with a touch of pain in his voice.

I laughed.

"Where did you say you live?" Cliff asked.

"Block up. The only tricky part is crossing the street, after I had one too many."

"Maybe if you took me with you, we would have a better chance? I can look right. You can look left, and then, we'll make a run for it."

"Are you asking me to take you home with me?" I asked, wanting to be sure I heard him correctly.

"I would rather not be alone tonight. I get depressed after a long flight. Company would help," he said. "You sound like good company, and that way you get the watch for security, and I don't need to take it off."

"You're serious," I said, wondering how a rotten day ended with such promise.

"I'm serious. I can't sit up much longer. I am beat," he said. "That drink was a bad idea. You have me at your mercy, Brand."

"Don't forget to duck on the way out," I said, as we headed for the door.

Clifford ducked. I didn't, and I knew I was engaged in foolishness, but I didn't want to be alone tonight either. Being alone together was far better than being alone alone.

The idea I was going to find prince charming at my age wasn't in the cards. I wasn't born yesterday, and my boat sailed a long time ago. Oh, I had been in love, and I had loved and lost enough times to know that love is like a cigarette, you smoke them if you have them.

He leaned against me at the corner as we stood under the streetlamp, waiting for the light to change. The second or third time it changed, we began to walk.

It wasn't a flirtatious lean.

It was a lean by someone seeking to be steadied by somebody, anybody.

He'd be gone in the morning, and I would be late for work again.

There would be a note, Thanks, and there would be nothing left but a memory of Clifford from Paris. I had been around the track a few times. Pickups in bars were a temporary state of mind. They were like mints for a man my age, the taste lingered long after it melts away.

I remembered romance. I was too busy making money to let a romance slow me down. One day I looked around, and here I was. I was well enough off, and kittens and puppies were never in the picture. I did like companionship and the last few years I met a canasta partner, a movie buff I went to the movies with, and a drunk I parted company with, once I got sober again.

Such is the life of a man who had reached my station in life. I was known in business circles. I was once a fancy dancer, and a hit at the clubs during the disco craze. John Travolta had nothing on me. Well, maybe he was a bit better looking.

I even had a white suit. I imitated the Travolta strut during the disco days. I could do the dance from Saturday Night Fever, complete with my arm thrust into the air at the end. It was good clean fun, and Casey and our crowd were always begging me to, "Do Travolta," at a disco club we went to in Clearwater. I wasn't delusional enough to think I looked like Travolta, but I liked being the center of attention for a few minutes.

I could afford to travel, and I should have retired a decade ago when there was still a lot of living left to be done, but I worked, drank a little more than I should, and I never learned how to cook. Once I took a fellow home, and we got up to the only dish I had to keep him on hand, and after the coffee was drunk, we went off to the Park Pantry to enjoy their home baked breads and jam along with the best bowl of oatmeal in town. I like oatmeal.

There was the clumsy, "I'll call," followed by a quick hug to prove our close friendship for the past few hours, and then I was home alone again, trying to find a book that fit my mood.

Only Cliff slept long into the morning. I sat looking at him from the fancy chair I bought at Dander's Loft & Fine Furniture, once my back ached too much, and after getting up, I really needed to sit down to put on my shoes and socks, if I was going out, and I always was, because I didn't cook, and I did work for a living.

They delivered meals to my apartment if I remembered to call for such a thing. I usually ate on my way out, and I ate on my way in. I had chips, nuts, and bottles of booze to tide me over if I didn't have the energy to go out.

"Good morning," I said, once Cliff opened his eyes.

He looked around a bit, and there was that 'Oh no, look in his eyes, and that what have I done expression on his face.

He found me and looked directly into my eyes.

"I hoped you weren't a dream, Brand. You're a life saver, you know? I might never have made it to the hotel, I'm sorry I imposed on you. I don't do things like this. I've been gone a while."

"My specialty, Clifford. Coffee is an hour old, but it's all I have to offer but chips and nuts."

"You sound like the hostess on the plane, "Chips, nuts, another bourbon?"

I laughed.

It wasn't what I expected. He didn't look any different once he woke.

"Why didn't you wake me. My god, I browbeat my way into your apartment and passed out in your bed. It's not how to impress friends and influence people, you know?"

"It was no bother," I reassured him.

I realized it wasn't a bother. We hadn't touched each other but having him there was nice.

"You must have work. Oh my god, I'm so sorry. I'm such a klutz. I'll get up and get out of your way, and you can get on with your day."

"Slow down. I already called. I took the day off. They don't need me. My secretary does all the work. I merely sign documents and drink coffee."

He smiled and he relaxed. I could see the relief on his face. He worried he had upset my day. Believe me when I say, it was no problem whatsoever. I liked Cliff. He was easy to like.

"I still need to get up and out of your way. I was so exhausted. Thank you again, Brand."

He got out of bed and remembered exactly where he left his clothes. I was impressed. He wasn't much like anyone I took home from a bar before. I was about to make a fool of myself, but I was going to take a shot. There was something about Cliff I liked.

"Since I'm off today, and there's the Park Pantry a few blocks down. They have delightful breads and jams, and I enjoy their oatmeal. It comes with nuts, raisins, and brown sugar in little containers on the side. Each day I have a different garnish on it if I get up in time to go there. As you might be able to tell, I like living on the wild side in the morning."

He laughed at my good humor. He had a nice smile. It warmed me to have him here.

"You know my financial condition, Brand. I really shouldn't impose on you any longer. You've been delightful. You don't know how you saved me from a world of embarrassment. I need to get out of your hair."

"Not before breakfast, and way better coffee than I made," I said. "I won't take no for an answer. I'm taking you to the Park Pantry to get your day off on the right foot."

"If you insist. I will pay you back for all your kindness. I am glad it was you sitting at the end of the bar and not some pretty boy."

Once dressed, he took a cup of coffee I handed to him as he stood behind me in the kitchen next to my Mr. Coffee. As kitchens went, it wasn't much, but coffee being the only cooking I did, it didn't require much space. I did buy a microwave oven, because the meals I have delivered are sometimes too cool to appreciate the flavors, once they arrive. A few seconds in the microwave, and it's toasty warm.

"There is one thing," Clifford said, as we walked into the dinette to sit at the table.

"I need to phone. It's long distance to Miami. They'll be able to take care of cancelling my cards and getting me some walking around cash. Would you mind? I'll feel a lot better once I get that done."

I showed him where my phone was in the apartment, and he sat to dial the number.

"Vic, Clifford, I need you to cancel all my cards. I need five hundred cash at the Ritz Carlton, and I'll call once I eat to get my messages. Yes, I'm in Clearwater."

He sat listening for a few minutes, and then he spoke again.

"I'm going to breakfast. I am not at the Ritz. Stop your giggling. I'll contact him later this morning. Tell him if he calls back. You know what to do as well as I do, why do you annoy me with nonsense, when I told you I'm in a hurry. This is long distance. I'm running the man's phone bill up. Love you too."

Clifford hung up.

I couldn't help but here it all, I was still standing next to him.

"That's my office. Vic is a doll, but when I'm away, he simply won't stop talking shop. He flew back last week, and I had a bit of business to do before I came home. On a whim, I decided to come here. I was raised in Clearwater. It's changed, you know.?"

"Your partner?" I asked, jumping way ahead of myself. I knew better.

"Secretary. He's much more. I hired him as my secretary, but he does everything for me. It's a long story, but things have been a bit overwhelming the last year or so. I hired Vic."

"Let's go," I said. "Sounds like you have business to do, and we'll enjoy a hot breakfast before you leave me alone again."

He was still seated. I was standing next to him, and when he looked up, he had the strangest look on his face. Maybe I was pushing a bit hard. I knew better. At my age a good friend was far better than a bad lover, but I felt good about being with Cliff.

I wanted to walk. It was only two blocks, and I needed some fresh air. It was late enough that the breakfast crowd had thinned out, and it was too early for lunch.

"You order," Clifford said, sitting across from me. "I'll eat anything."

We ate what I always ate. We lingered over coffee, crumpets and orange marmalade. I took my time drinking my third cup of coffee. I didn't want to go in to work. I didn't want to say goodbye to Cliff, but our time had come and gone.

"You are off today?"

"Yeah, I never take a day. I figured I would just relax after having such a pleasant evening yesterday, Cliff."

"I've got to go into the office in Miami. I'll take a commuter jet over and back. Come with me. You've been so kind, and I'll only be a few hours in Miami, and we can dine there. There's a Cuban place I love, and we can stay over at my place. We'll fly back in the morning."

"Yes," I said.

I left no doubt I was in for Miami, and anything else he had in mind. For the first time in a while, I was with someone I didn't want to leave. He would leave soon enough, but for the time being, I was in for Cliff, and anything he had in mind.

"I'll need to use your phone again. I'll send for a car and book us on the next flight. We'll return on the Lear Jet, but I don't want to wait for it to come and get us. The pilots need to know they're flying with some advance notice. A commuter plane flies there a half dozen times a day. We'll be in Miami by noon."

"Lear Jet?" I asked with more surprise in my voice than I intended.

"It's handy. When I need to fly, I don't want to fool around with commercial aircraft. If I'm flying on business, I work on my way to where ever I'm going. That way I'm tip top when I arrive. I'm ready to do business. I get it over with, and then, fly home."

The flight took an hour, and a long white Cadillac was waiting in front of the terminal when we stepped out into the brilliant Miami daylight.

It wasn't noon yet, and Clifford and I hadn't been out of each other's sight. I flew to Miami once or twice a month, and I knew how to do it with the fewest delays. Clifford seemed to know more than I knew about the ins and outs of travel.

He talked like a man who had been around and my business took me all over the country.

Cliff began to impress me, and I wasn't easy to impress.

I was comfortable, but not well off. I wasn't missing any meals, and my living arrangement was what I wanted at this time in my life. Then, Cliff walked into Stanley's. It was hard to imagine how we got here from there, but here we were. None of it made me feel uncomfortable. If there was a word that described how I felt being with him, it was comfortable.

I didn't know the city of Miami all that well, but we went out toward the ocean before the limo dropped us in front of a tall high-rise. It was in the business section of town.

"Vic, Brandon. Brandon, this is my Jack of all trades, Vic Chism. He runs this place, but they let me sit behind the big mahogany desk in my office. I sign a lot of papers."

"Hi," I said.

"Hi," Vic said. "Clifford, Martin called two more times. He wants you in New York yesterday."

"He knows where I've been? I'm not going to New York. Keep telling him. He'll get the idea."

"That's why he keeps calling. "Vic, is he back yet." It's been like this since I flew back. There is a stack of messages I put on your desk. I took care of what I could."

"He is a pain in my ass. I should ignore him just to teach him a lesson. You know more about his dealings than I do. What does he want that he thinks I can do anything about within a few hours after I come in from Paris? He knows it takes time for me to catch up."

"He wants you in on the Samson deal. He is looking at property in Montana. He wants your approval before he moves on it."

"He's useless as tits on a boar hog. I'm not in the mood Vic. Take care of it. Meet him out there and see if you think it's worthwhile. I'm not ready to do business. Tell him that."

"I told him what you would say. He wants your word on it before he moves, Clifford."

"I'll be in my office. Send for coffee, and some of those sweet things you like. I'll be in my office," Clifford said again.

I followed him down a long hallway until he came to the last door in the corridor.

He swung the door open and held it for me to enter.

"I'm sorry. I promise I won't be long. I'm officially off, and I'm not in the mood to be annoyed. It's always crazy when I come back from Europe, and I'm not in the mood."

"Fascinating," I said. "You fascinate me, Clifford."

"I do my best?" he said. "Maybe I do enough to get by. I haven't gone out of business yet."

"I never pictured a man bumming a drink as a captain of industry. You do remember where we met?"

"Hardly, Brand. I started out investing twenty years ago. I was fresh out of Stanford, and ready to conquer the world. Here I am, almost fifty, and I'm a captive of this damn place. It was fun once, but not anymore. I can't get away from it."

I sat without being asked, and Clifford picked up the phone.

"Vic, don't send $500 to the Ritz Carlton. No, send it. I want some running around money just in case. Get me $500 while I'm here. I should be good to go. No, I am not working today. I am not talking to Martin. Well, maybe I'll call to tell him I'm off. Yes, $500 at the Ritz and $500 before I leave the office. Did you cancel my cards? I don't intend to get caught short again. My pocket was picked. I told you that."

He laughed.

"What did he say?"

"He said, "You've been off since I've known you.""

Clifford called Martin and it was a pleasant short conversation. I was sure he was ready to rip him, but Clifford didn't do such a thing. He merely told Martin, "Vic will handle it."

As the white limo sat with engine idling in front of the building, we got in when we came out.

"Kasim, take us to the pier up toward Fort Lauderdale. You know the one."

"Very good, Sir," Kasim answered, and we began to move.

"Oh, I need to relax. You don't mind. We can stay at my place tonight, and we can just relax today. Jet lag is a bitch, and if I get some fresh sea air, I might lose this headache."

I leaned toward him, using my fingertips on his temples. I gently massaged.

His eyes closed and his rigid posture began to give way to something less tense.

"Oh, Brand, I'll give you an hour to stop that. You are a magic man, you know?"

"It's just what I do when I have a headache," I told him.

"You have headaches too?" he said in a sigh. "Oh, that's so nice."

It was nice. Clifford was nice, and I was on the wrong side of Florida not doing my job, and I didn't give a damn. For the first time in years, I was enjoying myself while living someone else's life. The change of pace was pleasant. I didn't do things like fly off with no idea of when I might fly back.

I might never go back.

Reality did catch up with me, once I sat back and watched Clifford fall asleep. He didn't snore, but his breathing was heavy, and his posture collapsed in on itself.

I just looked at him. He was middle age, but thin, not the least bit overweight. His suit had all but been slept in, but it looked fairly decent. He looked very decent. I liked him more than I should. I didn't even know him, but I liked what I saw.

I knew this was a temporary pause in an otherwise boring life. I would take what I could get. I was off today, and probably tomorrow. I hadn't taken any time off in years. My partners spoke of the age we should all retire, but I passed that years ago. It wasn't mentioned again.

What would I do if I didn't work? What good was I doing at work? Marge did everything for me, she even had a way to keep me from drinking too much. Marge was a keeper.

Kasim turned into the parking lot and drove as close to the pier as he could go.

"Kasim, we won't be long," Clifford said, before we got out.

Fisherman were casting long durable looking rods and reels along the sides of the pier as we walked past. We continued to walk until we reached the end of the pier. There were a few people standing around doing nothing, and there were fisherman fishing, and people looking, as the fresh salt air penetrated my open nostrils.

The wind had me hesitating as we moved up to the railing at the end of the pier. My thin jacket whipped in a sturdy wind.

As I took a step backward, and regained my footing, a man at the very tip of the pier was letting the rod dip deeply before he cranked on the reel before taking another step backward as he struggled to pull the rod back up to point at the sky. After accomplishing this, he stepped forward and let the rod dip again, while he cranked, stepped back, and did it all again, over and over again. It was man and fish engaged in a life and death struggle.

We stood to one side, watching him battle whatever he had on the line. He didn't know he had an audience, and we didn't see his audience as he continued drawing the big fish closer and closer to the end of the pier. We looked out to see a shadow in the water, going in circles, as the man struggled with his rod and reel.

It was when he took a step back, doing his best to get the tip of his rod up one more time, when a loud twang announced to everyone there, the struggle Is over, and this time the fish would swim away with his life. The fisherman's line had broken, leaving an unruly mess inside his reel with the sudden loss of tension knotting up his line.

There was some applause for his effort, and he looked to see the people standing around. He managed to smile. He lost the fish he was fighting. It had to be disappointing.

The fish wouldn't make it to anyone's dinner table tonight.

When the line snapped, a groan came from seven or eight witnesses. I didn't groan. I was rather delighted the fish got away. The man looked like he knew what he was doing, and he would catch a big one tomorrow, when I wasn't watching.

The most remarkable thing about the entire deal, once that line broke, I realized that my hand was in Clifford's hand. It felt very warm. It felt good that I was with someone who wanted to hold my hand. I remembered that there was a rather famous song sung by four men who sang, "I want to hold your hand."

I smiled at no one. We had turned from the fisherman and leaned on the railing at the end of the line, and we held hands. I felt very good as we looked out on a rough sea.

Clifford didn't say anything. He stopped when we had gone as far as we could go, and we looked out at the rather rough appearing ocean. The waves were substantial. The wind blew hard enough to make our clothes raise a ruckus. The wind was strong enough to have us moving while we stood there. It wasn't a cold breeze, but it was cool. If we stayed for any length of time, I would need a thicker jacket, but it was a good place to be.

We didn't talk, because we would need to yell over the substantial noise of the wind and the sea, but we were both ready to leave the rather harsh looking horizon in a few minutes.

"You had enough?" Clifford asked as he spoke into my ear.

His lips brushed my ear and gave me a chill.

"Yes," I yelled, nodding my head.

We turned to make our way back to the car. We passed wiggling fish lying on the pier, and buckets with fish half in and half out as the fisherman never knew we were there.

"Is that oatmeal wearing thin? I know a place close by," he told me.

"I could eat," I said.

Kasim held the door open for us. His hat blew off, and he left us to chase it down. The car door closed without assistance, and soon Kasim was back in his seat, hat on.

He told Kasim where to go once we got underway.

"Hungry, Kasim? Park in the back and send the waiter to me with the bill. We'll be an hour or so, and then you can drop me at my place."

"Yes, Sir," the driver said.

He stopped at the front door of the restaurant to let us out.

It was your basic restaurant. It had sturdy tables and chairs, no tablecloth, I could smell food frying in the kitchen. There were plastic menus between a bottle with plastic flowers and salt and pepper shakers. I felt sand under my shoes all the way to the table.

The waitress chewed gum, had a pencil behind her ear, and looked like the kind of waitress you would expect to find in a restaurant near the water. She took the pencil from behind her ear, removing a pad from her apron, gave a few cracks with her gum, and then she spoke.

"What can I get you gents. The menus hadn't left their designated spot on the table.

"Clams are to die for. Slaw is the best I've had, and the hushpuppies are heavenly," he said.

"You order. I'll eat anything," I said.

I didn't cook. To avoid cooking, I did eat most anything. Compared with the flight, the visit to his office, our tour of a pier somewhere north of Fort Lauderdale, this was a step down. I would eat what she brought and pretend to enjoy it.

I liked seafood, but I tended to stay away from fried things. My stomach got unruly when I ate fried foods. In this place, well, I would eat what came to the table.

Our gum cracking waitress showed up with plates up both arms and two sturdy white cups of coffee. Sitting the cups down first, the plates slid right into place in front of me.

"Thanks, Hazel," Clifford said.

I didn't understand what she said, but we were left with some quite fragrant dishes. Along with the clams was a pile of French fries.

"Try the slaw first," Clifford suggested. "It gives your mouth some texture for the fried clams, and the two flavors mix delightfully. You'll see."

I had doctored my coffee, and I was still a bit chilled from our excursion on to the pier. When I turned up my cup, it was superb. I did grind my coffee beans, and I liked Ethiopian and Sumatran beans. This was good if not better than I usually drank. Someone in Jake's knew what he was doing when it came to coffee.

I was surprised again. It was a wonderful mingling of flavors. Cabbage isn't exactly my dish, but after tasting the slaw, I forked a clam and bit into it. I had died and gone to heaven.

"Oh, my," was all I could say, and the shoveling began.

I underestimated Jake's. Whoever he was, he knew his way around seafood.

Three cups of coffee later, Hazel brought us Kasim's bill with our own.

"I don't have my cards, Hazel. Tell Andras I'll pay my bill at the end of the month. I'll be back more than once. I've been out of town, and I got my pocket picked."

"As you wish, Clifford," she said, walking away without being worried about payment..

"Hazel, wait just a minute. You shouldn't need to wait for your tip," I said.

Opening my wallet, I took out a ten dollar bill I remembered I had from a night I didn't drink.

"Thank you, Brand. I do add tips when I write checks for services rendered.

I didn't see the bill, I tipped what I normally tipped without knowing how he did it. He was paying our way across Florida and back. Kicking in ten bucks wasn't out of order as I saw it.

"My place," Kasim. You can have the rest of the day to yourself. If we eat out, I'll call a cab, and I won't be up early tomorrow. I'll leave word with Vic if I need you."

"Yes, Sir."

His place was between Fort Lauderdale and Pompano Beach. It sat right off of A1A, and I got a kink in my neck trying to see the top floor.

"Good evening, Roosevelt. How are all those kiddies of yours?"

"Nice of you to ask, Mr. Clifford. They is fine as good wine. Douglas has another cold, and the Mrs. has it now, but considering, things are very nice."

Roosevelt pushed, Pent 3, on a field of buttons next to the man's arm.

We walked down a long-carpeted corridor, and he had his key out and held the door for me.

I immediately walked to the side with all the windows, and I looked out at the Atlantic Ocean. There were white caps on the water now, and the wind had picked up from when we were on the pier. The view was breathtaking, even if I never cared much for heights.

Clifford walked to where I stood, taking my hand in his.

"Isn't it the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, Brand."

"Beautiful," I said, and he squeezed my hand as we took it all in.

"It's way out of my league, Clifford. I couldn't afford the light bill in this place."

I could probably afford the light bill, but I couldn't afford a view like that. I couldn't begin to imagine what that place set him back. His place was quite a place. There was a huge dining room, and a corridor full of bedroom doors. I needed to sit down after he took me the length of the apartment and back to the main salon where we once again stood in front of the long row of windows.

It had begun to rain, and droplets ran on the glass in front of us.

"Yes, it's way too much. No one needs a top floor apartment on the ocean, but I lived small for my entire life, and lately, well, things being what they are, I plan to live a little, while I can. I have money. Why not spend it."

"Indeed," was all I could say.

"This was what was lingering in the back of my mind since I met Clifford. While he can."

"If you have it, no harm in spending it, Clifford. I mean I could afford better digs, but I've lived there for so long, it's home. I never gave a thought to anything like this. It's a palace."

"It is, and it's a place to hang my hat. I bought it five minutes after my realtor showed it to me. I didn't need to be sold on it. I knew what I wanted, and this was it. I did flinch once, when he told me what I would be paying for it. In Miami, it would be twice the price."

"Clifford, I don't know what I'm doing here. I met a guy in a bar yesterday evening. He was down on his luck and asked me to buy his drink. It was a charming come on, I admit, but I can't figure out how we got here from there," I said, turning to face him.

I wasn't going to say anything. Then, I had to say something.

When I did, he turned to face me.

The kiss was long and lingering. We kissed, and he kissed me again. I was in his arms. He was in my arms. I hadn't forgotten how to kiss, but it had been a while. I didn't want to kiss just anyone. I wanted to kiss Clifford. I liked Clifford more than it was wise to like anyone after a day together. It was nice day. Clifford was nice. It rained all night.

It was way too much. I hadn't been anywhere in a long time. Not anywhere I wanted to be. I wanted to be here. I wanted to be with Clifford, and it was way too much to consider.

Clifford trembled while he kissed me. I didn't get a chance to initiate any kissing. Clifford was large and in charge, and I was smitten by a man that wasn't much more than a mystery. We hadn't touched each other the night before. He fell asleep before I got my shoes off, and I did not try to take advantage of him. Not that it didn't cross my mind.

I was long beyond my lustful years. I had been happy to have company.

Today had unfolded in a whirlwind of going here, going there, ending up in his penthouse.

What was I doing here? I was setting myself up for a fall, and I knew it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Life had become dull and boring years ago. I worked because what would I do if I didn't?

I knew there were surprises, people who came and went, and some you like a lot, and you mourned when they leave you. I had been in love enough. I'd been left enough. I didn't play that game any longer. For years there had been no pleasant surprises. No tricks at the end of a bar needing someone to buy him a drink.

I stopped looking for anything more than a little company and some laughs. It was safe and my feelings never got dashed on the rocks of reality the next morning.

That's when Clifford came into my life. He was younger than I was. He was better looking than I was. And he was far more successful than I was. I suppose it was a little like living in a dream. There was nothing Clifford didn't have, or that he wouldn't share with me.

Clifford was thoughtful enough to show me two or three of his bedrooms that I could pick from. That was before he opened his door to a room the size of my apartment. The bed was elevated a few feet from the window that looked out on the Atlantic. You had a view of the horizon while you laid in bed. It was like a dream.

I said the only thing I could think of to say, "Is this where we will sleep."

He turned to smile at me. We were kissing again. We somehow managed to get undressed and to climb up on the bed while we kissed. I suppose it's the kind of thing you can do at a time like this, but it still seemed like a lot to get done in such a short period.

We would sleep together and a lot more. He ended up in my arms. It was dark and the window showed some lightness that didn't come from any source I could see.

I didn't spend a lot of time looking out. There was my discomfort with heights deal, and there was Clifford. We went around the world and back before we ended up holding each other. I was awake at dawn, and the sun had just made its appearance above a flat ocean.

It was the calm after the storm. I held Clifford. It was amazing to have someone in my arms after so many years after I gave up on lust and love. At my age there were only feelings to be crushed, and the ruins after being left behind again. It became easier not to play that game, and live the life I had, until there was no life left.

After years of being alone, but never lonely, Clifford walked into my life. We were spending our second day together, and I had him right where I wanted him, sleeping in my arms.

He woke at about eight. He put his hands on my arms, leaning back to kiss me.

"Thank you, Brand. You don't know how I wanted you to make love to me. You ever gone without for so long, and then, someone special shows up to woo you?"

"I think, I know the feeling," I told him.

Clifford was the bee's knees, and I was all at a time I had been on the outs for too long.

We met Tuesday night, and for the second morning in a row, we woke up in the same place. We woke up at my place Wednesday, and his place on Thursday. The fact the two places were separated by the state of Florida made no difference, except we knew each other for twice as long by Thursday.

His closet was the size of my bedroom. On one side he had suits arranged from brown, to gray, to charcoal, to blue surge, and then came a dozen assorted colors. The shoes ran under the suits. They were appropriate colors to blend in with whatever suit he wore.

The shirts, sweaters, ascots, were beside the ties, the socks, and that's where the kissing started. I didn't give much thought to the bedrooms he let me see before he brought me into his bedroom, and after getting some sleep, I stood in his closet as he was deciding what to wear.

I came out of the closet when I was sixteen. I was never in a closet as nice as Clifford's. He was more direct than me. I doubt he was ever in the closet. Clifford didn't waste time. He succeeded by being straight to the point, once he knew what he was after. Ending up here, after he ended up in Stanley's, well, we ended up here.

I would follow Clifford anywhere.

"Oh, my, you must be famished. We haven't eaten in, since I don't know when."

"I didn't notice. When you get close to me, I notice nothing else," I said.

He kissed me, and then, he kissed me again.

"You are so, so…," he said, stepping back to look at my face.

"So here," I tried on for size.

He laughed.

"Let me order. I have people who wait for me to order breakfast. Vic has told them I'm in the penthouse today. They'll have us breakfast in 30 minutes, if you can wait."

"I'm not going anywhere," I said with gusto.

I was with Clifford. I was having more fun than I had in too long. Someone like Clifford came a long once in a lifetime. Until he told me different, he was stuck with me, and I … well, I was stuck on him.

Thirty minutes later, we sat at a table that was rolled up against the windows. A cart sat at Clifford's right hand, once he sat down.

He dished up fragrant omelets, crumpets, muffins, jams, sausage, potatoes too marvelous to turn down, and the coffee was full of flavor.

The room was full of Clifford. I knew this would end too soon. I didn't want it to end.

I was more than a little hungry. I tried to remember where I was, and I took my time. Gobbling my food was not the kind of impression I wanted to make. No matter what I did, it wouldn't make any difference in the end.

The idea I was there with Clifford made every flavor more intense and twice as good. Doing anything with Clifford was better than anything I did in a long time. I felt relaxed with him. I did make an effort to be on my best behavior, but he didn't seem to mind my lack of breeding. He oozed good breeding, and I got by as best I could.

"Marge, it's me. Where am I? You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Tell Taylor I will be taking a leave of absence. Tell him to get my retirement papers out of his filing cabinet. No, I'm not sure, but I am getting there. What will happen to you, Marge, good god, you know my job better than I do. You'll simply take over what you've been doing for years. I'll see to it you are fine. No, I'm not crazy. Well, maybe a little crazy, but that's another story. I'll be leaving for the Bahamas in an hour or so. I'll send you a postcard. No, you don't need to write down the address for me. I've worked there for twenty years."

I hung up the phone.

Clifford leaned to kiss me.

"That really what you want to do?"

I leaned to kiss him.

"It's what I've wanted to do for years. I can't tell you the number of times I was on my way in to work, and I hesitated and gave thought to going home and calling to quit. I had nothing else to do," I told him. "If I retired, I would sit up in my apartment and grow old. Older."

"Have you been to, Paris, Brand?"

"Once. I was flying to London from Rome, after a conference I had to endure. We had engine trouble, and we had to get off that plane in Paris and get on another one that got us to London. That was all my European travel, " I confess. "Just ask me about any place in this country. I've been to them all."

Clifford laughed. We held hands. He kissed me. I kissed him.

We had begun to repeat ourselves. It was glorious.

We both laughed some more. Wasn't life grand?

"I'll need to go to Paris in a few weeks. Do you still have your passport?"

"Somewhere," I said. "Marge will know where it is."

"Will you come with me?"

"Just try going without me. I couldn't leave you if I tried."

It was a whirlwind of activity that it took some time to adapt to. I had been doing the same thing every day for so long, being on the move all the time did wear me out, but I was with a man who energized me with a touch, a smile. I won't describe what his kisses do to me. Some things are best left to the imagination. I couldn't have imagined being with Clifford. He was too good to be true.

When we reached the Bahamas, the Lear Jet never shut down its engine.

A black Rolls Royce rolled up beside the stairs, and a rather tall distinguished looking black man held the door for us, and we stepped down the last step, and went into the car.

As we drove toward the exit, the Lear Jet lifted off into the pleasant afternoon sky. I was lost somewhere between disbelief and wonder when Maximilian began to speak.

"Clifford, the cook and Adamas were notified after you called. I believe they are at the summer house in the inlet. I haven't reached Jack, but he's often off fishing for days at a time. He'll bring the yacht around as quickly as I can get him. Pillsbe has opened the house and freshened up your room. I made sure the house was being aired out, and I ordered fresh flowers to cover any musky smell from the house being closed up for ages. It's nice having you home Clifford."

"Good, Max. You have an open schedule."

"I'm all yours, Clifford, for as long as you need me," he said in a deep resonate voice that made the hair stand up on my neck.

"Better be careful, Max, you could get yourself in deeper than you intend to,"," Clifford said.

"Never," Maximilian said. "I'm always at your service."

Clifford laughed.

Maximilian had a deep resonant voice, and his accent was delightfully Jamaican.

If you could hear the sound a hot fudge Sundae made, Maximilian would be the cherry on top of the whip cream. He was more fun than Kasim.

"How's Lucian?"

"Delicious, Ha! Ha! Ha!" Max's voice echoed through the Rolls.

I laughed.

"Have dinner with us one night this week? I want to hear about what you've been up to."

"You wish is my command, Sir. I'll tell Lucian to get out his best white Bermuda shorts. He might even wash them for you, Clifford."

Clifford laughed.

I watched the spectacular scenery pass me by, as we wound our way south of the airport.

"How are you feeling, Clifford?"

"Fine. I'm fine," Clifford answered too quickly.

There it was again. I didn't know what it was, but it was there.

I was having the time of my life with one of the nicest men I've known. If laid back was a thing, Clifford embodied it. He made me more relaxed than I usually was. I think Clifford put everyone at ease. He put me at ease.

I never took myself or my life very seriously. Mama was responsible for that, I suppose.

Mama told me, "In a hundred years, no one will know we once lived."

"What about Washington and Lincoln?" I teased.

"It's rare for good men to rise through the rabble. Washington and Lincoln rose above the power hungry and self-interested. They saw where we might be able to go, and it was a better place for everyone. They were the kind of men God made to lead."

Washington and Lincoln were exceptional men for their time. Especially Washington, he had power and walked away from it twice. No one did that. Men fought to get power, and they don't give it up. Lincoln grew into the man he became, and both put the country first.

It's not how politicians do it today, but times do change. Maybe there is another Washington or Lincoln out there somewhere. That would be a pleasant change.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The summer house furnished another spectacular view of the bay and the ocean beyond. When Clifford was doing business, I left him alone, and I went out to stand on the cliff in front of the house.

The air was fresh and clean. The temperatures were perfect. If it ever got too hot, or too cold at the summer house, you flew somewhere else. The summer house was built for comfort. The meals were home cooked, and the yard and gardens were kept in perfect condition. The gardens supply an unforgettable smell.

I hoped we stayed here for a while. I liked the feel of the tropical sun on my face.

Captain Jack drove a pristine 55 Chevy sedan that looked as if he drove it off the showroom floor yesterday morning, and he came for us this morning.

He came to the house to pick us up, and he took us to the marina and a sixty-five-foot fishing boat. It was more a fishing yacht with a dining room and a bar. Jack was a fisherman, an adventurer and explorer in bygone days. Now, he looked after Clifford's yacht, and he kept it in tip top shape for when he took Clifford out on it.

We sailed out of the blue green bay into the dark green sea. It was a perfect day, and there were seats mounted to the deck, once Jack brought them out and put them in place.

It was set up for deep sea fishing, but Clifford and I didn't fish. Captain Jack took us to some nearby islands that seemed deserted when he dropped us off in the launch that rested above the deck in a special loft made for it to be kept out of the way.

If the yacht sank, we would get into the launch and continue on our way. What they won't think of next. It was comfortable.

The islands made me feel like a pirate, searching for a patch where we could stow our treasure, until the heat was off us. It was a perfect day, and each day was followed by another perfect day. If there was a better way to live, I couldn't think of it.

There were mostly birds. Beautiful, beautiful birds, flying from the top of one tree to the next. I'm told there are snakes and lizards roaming about, we were lucky enough not to run into any. I didn't ask if Jack was coming back for us, but yacht was anchored a few hundred feet off the beach.

What I was thinking about was Clifford. It was hard to believe the life he lived. A guy walks into a bar, and I end up walking on beaches in the Bahamas. It was beyond imagination.

"How are you feeling?" Captain Jack asked, while grasping Cliffords hand.

"Fine, Jack. I'm fine," he told the captain.

There it was again as we went back on board.

I wanted to ask, but I didn't. Some things are better not to know.

Clifford was forthright and frank. If he had anything he wanted to tell me, he would tell me, but we were having a ball, and that's what we were doing. Even when I watched him while he wasn't aware my eyes were on him, I wondered how he was.

We came back to cold drinks and hot food. I did have a bigger appetite when we stayed in motion most of each day. There were Clifford's afternoon naps. I couldn't nap in the afternoon.

"Marge, I hate to impose on you, but I'm staying on for a while. What did Taylor say about my leave of absence? He did? He didn't. Stop it, you're killing me. Let yourself into my place. Pick out a couple of suits, my best shirts. There's one still in the wrapper. Get that one and a few other things you imagine I might need. No, I don't miss you. Yes, I'm having the time of my life. No, I won't be back anytime soon. No, just keep my retirement papers handy. I can't be sure I'm going to submit them to Taylor yet. There is no rush."

Maximilian drove me to pick my suitcases up at the air express office. There wasn't one but two suitcases. She had one full of suits, and the second had everything else.

As I took the suits out of the suitcase one at a time to hang them up, I came to my John Travolta outfit. Not only was the white suit on a hanger ready to hang up, but on the hanger with the suit was a baby blue silk shirt. In the jacket pocket, a baby blue handkerchief.

She could think it would still fit me after forty years.

I laughed out loud, and then, I had an idea. It was the kind of idea I never had.

"Maximilian, I need this suit cleaned. Do you know of a tailor in town? I want to have this let out to fit my new figure, since the last time I wore it."

"Ah, Brand, you are svelte as a dancer," Maximilian said with a straight face. "Lucian's sister is a seamstress. I can have her come to the house. You want to have it altered before you send it out to be cleaned?"

"Yes," I said.

When Max wasn't driving us, he was happy to do anything Clifford needed him to do. By extension, he did favors for me. When he drove us somewhere to eat, he came in, pulled our chairs out for us to be seated, and he sat across from us.

Actually, he was the life of the party. He knew everyone. Everyone knew Max.

Max was the only one who knew my plan but me. He helped me fit into my John Travolta outfit, when the time came. There was a club where you could eat and there was dancing, and for some unknown reason, they had a disco night, where a salsa band played all the old disco hits, and when they were finishing a set, and Max arranged this for me, they played Staying Alive.

I got up in my white suit, and I did the routine Travolta did in his white suit. I danced my heart out in front of the table where Clifford, Max, and Lucian sat, and at the very end, I did the Travolta strut the way I did it all those years ago, shooting my arm into the air at the end.

Much to my surprise, a hundred people had come onto the floor to see me dance, and once in the Travolta pose, they applauded.

I was mortified. I meant the dance for Clifford's eyes. I never expected to attract an audience.

Maybe I more expected people to ask, "What's that old goat think he's doing?"

I did the only thing I could think of to do. I took a bow, and I got more applause.

When I turned around to see Clifford's reaction, I was in his arms, and the kiss was most definitely R rated.

The audience applauded the kiss.

I'm sure I turned red.

I was so busy dancing for Clifford, I forgot we were in a nightclub.

"That was … ," Clifford said, and he kissed me again.

He had tears in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" I asked, thinking I might have made a fool of myself.

"You are the most beautiful man in the world, inside and out," he told me.

I wanted to do something so totally out of character as a way to show him how much he meant to me. It wasn't just the places we went. It wasn't the things we did. It was him. He had become the light in my life. I was in love, and I knew better. It never lasted long enough, but it was too late to turn back now.

I was most definitely in love with Clifford.

I knew it was foolish at my age, but that made it all the more fantastical. These were the best days of my life. I waited a long time to feel about Clifford, the way I felt about him. It didn't matter I was old. He didn't seem like he thought I might die on him.

Clifford dying on me was hardly on my mind. Making the most of being together seemed like the thing to do, and that's what we were doing.

He was so alive. So loveable. I would follow him anywhere.

It was two days later, after getting up from his afternoon nap that had become a regular thing. I was too antsy to lie down in the afternoon. I didn't want to disturb his rest.

I was standing on the patio, looking at the wonderful view. He came to stand beside me, taking my hand in his. He leaned against me as he often did.

"How are you?" I asked. "How do you feel."

He looked at his feet. He looked at the beautiful sea. He had tears in his eyes.

He finally looked at me.

"I'm dying, Brand. Don't say anything. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do this to anyone."

"Do what? Let me guess. You saw this old coot, and you figured, hell, he might croak before I do. I'll fall in love with him."

Clifford started to laugh. It's the response I hoped to get. I had gotten to know him pretty well, and when he got too serious, making him laugh always shook him out of it.

"I didn't mean to fall in love with someone and then die on him. I waited all my life for this, and I'm dying. I'm sorry, Brand. I should have told you. I couldn't say the words. I was afraid of losing you. You don't know how good it is being with you. You're funny. You're smart. You even know how to make me laugh."

"Remember the Tuesday night when we met at Stanley's?" I asked him.

"The best night of my life. When I woke up. When you were sitting there watching me when I opened my eyes. You don't know how good that felt. You were wonderful and I was a klutz."

"You might have seen some concern on my face. While I watched you sleeping, and you were sleeping beauty in my eyes, I noticed your complexion."

"That couldn't have been good," he said. "I had jet lag and, and they lost my luggage. I never did get my things back, and then, my pocket was picked. What an awful day it had been, and then there was you to rescue me."

"When I was young, and it's hard to remember when I was, I had a lover. Oh, Casey. We said we were lovers. I had no idea what love was. We couldn't leave each other alone is more like it. As with all young lovers, we didn't know what we had, or how precious it was.

"I don't think I really knew love until now," Clifford said. "You are wonderful, you know."

"I didn't have my place while I was with Casey. I'm an early riser. I used to sit and watch Casey sleep. I began to notice a pallor. His skin had a grayish look to it. That was before we knew he had it. He was still good in those day. His skin got lesions. When he started losing weight, well… we knew he had it. AIDS. He died in two months. A nearly six-foot, 180-pound man didn't weigh a hundred pounds when he died."

"It must have been terrible," Clifford said.

"It was a long time ago. He died in 1986. There was a lot of dying in 1986, but when I sat as daylight came to our room, he had that same pallor I saw on your face the morning after we met. I shook it off as my imagination. I stopped looking at you too closely. The people we met asked you the same question. Not, how are you. Not, how's tricks. They all asked, "How do you feel?"

"They all knew what I wanted to deny. I wasn't going to ask you. I didn't want to find out it's going to end too soon."

"You knew all along. I feared you'd leave me if I told you, Brand."

"Suspected. You didn't do anything. I fell in love with you before I knew what time of day it was. What I had no idea about when I was looking at Casey, once he had it, I saw in your color that first morning we were together. I shook it off. It was too cruel to think I was going to watch the man I loved slowly die for a second time."

"I'm afraid so. It is a cruel trick to play on you, and you've been thru it before. I'm so sorry."

"I remembered Casey and how in love we had been. Like all lovers, it wasn't a plan, once we started going out, we fell in love and didn't like being apart. We went to clubs with friends. We had a gay old time, and it all came crashing down on us. He wasn't ready to die. I wasn't ready to lose him, but we don't get to pick the hour of our death. He was there, and then he was gone. That was bad enough. He was the first of our little clan to die, and over a year, I was the last man standing."

"It must have been awful," Clifford said.

"Yes, but I am older and wiser. I had no way to cope with it back then. I'm more mature. I've been around. I've seen other people's lovers die. You get through it. In the beginning it's terrible. You grow accustomed to being alone, but you go on. There is no alternative. I never really looked for another lover. I dated and did all the crazy things you do once you know death is never far. When we met, I did find you interesting, not that I believed a word you said, but funny thing about that. Everything you said was true, and I kept looking at you, wondering where you came from. Oh, I knew you flew in from Paris, but you flew into my life like some bird of paradise. You gave me back those wonderful crazy feelings I thought I would never feel again. You made a mundane life into a wild and crazy living experience."

"I'm pretty amazing, aren't I? I mean to do all that for you."

"You don't realize how amazing you make me feel. It isn't forever, but you are going to have the best ending to a life ever, Clifford, and because we are star crossed lovers, I won't be far behind you, My Love. I have imagined my death many times, but it's never been clearer to me, when I die, I'm going to join you among the stars. We'll twinkle together forever."

"We will, Brand. I was afraid of death before we met, and now, I'm not afraid any longer."

We ended up in each other's arms. When we ended up in each other's arms, we were naturally kissing, and it was delicious. We were very alive and determined to make the most of it. I was in love, and I loved every minute of it. I recaptured the feelings I felt over thirty years before, and it came like a bolt from the blue.

Maximilian brought the car around, and we drove around the island with Max telling us the historical events that mostly involved the British, before the island was returned to the rightful owners. He claimed nothing had changed. The Bahamas went from part of the British Empire to a place that belonged to the people who lived here. Life went on as usual.

We held hands in the backseat, and Clifford look radiant that day.

We planned to eat on the patio at the summer house that evening. We had a feast with local dishes full of fruit and flavor.

We sipped coffee as we finished our meal.

"How do you feel, Clifford," I said, finally getting up the courage to ask.

"I feel wonderful. You've given me a new lease on life. I was in Paris for a special drug trial for my condition. I'll need to go back to Paris in a few weeks. Will you go with me? I'll show you Paris, beyond the airport and the hospitals."

I laughed.

"I'm not a world traveler. I never got enough of this country, I guess. Too busy making money, I suppose. You just try to stop me from going with you," I said. "I don't want to let you get out of sight, Clifford. I'll stay with you as long as you let me. I'll do my best to make the time we have as good as any living anyone has ever done."

Clifford smiled.

I held his hand as we looked north across a big bay and a bigger sea. There were a few wispy white clouds moving lazily across an otherwise azure sky. The sun hung low in the sky to the west, and a breeze cooled what had been a warm day.

If this wasn't paradise, it was close. I never lived in a more beautiful place.

He didn't look sick. He was radiant that day. As Max would say, "He looked Delicious."

I had suspected he was sick. It was no less painful to know the truth, but we had each other, and while we were alive, we were going to live. I was surviving, making it from day to day before Clifford. I had never been more alive. I felt thirty-five again.

Ain't love grand?

Isn't it a mystery how we manage to get where we are?

When we start out, we have no clue where we're going, or where we'll end up, and then you're sitting on a mountain top looking out at a world that seems to be far away.

It was never far enough away. In the midst of life, we are dying.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We stayed in the Bahamas until it was time to fly to Paris. Maximilian drove the Rolls on to the tarmac, pulling up beside the stairs of the Lear Jet. We scurried inside and were taxiing down the runway five minutes later.

The Lear jet lifted into a clear morning sky and it made a turn to the east.

We were sleeping when the plane began circling Orly Airport. The lights in the cabin had been turned low, and it was pitch black outside.

"Gentlemen, we'll be on the ground in ten minutes. Sorry to disturb you rest. Gilbert is waiting for you with a car. You are booked in the Ritz, Paris, you may be bothered in the morning for passports and such, but you'll go directly to the hotel tonight. All arrangements have been made. Pasteur Institute verified you are having treatments there and told them where you were staying. I'll clear my flight log with French customs, and I'll be back for you in a week to take you anywhere you wish to go. Enjoy Paris."

The City of Lights was beautiful. Clifford was beautiful, but his energy slipped away among scientists and doctors who poked, prodded, and studied him. There were no secrets to be kept at the Pasteur Institute, or the nearby hospital where they pumped the medication into his veins.

I stayed beside him and held his hand throughout. Doctors and Scientists had plenty to say. This time, I heard every word. I heard his treatment described. The used words like, "Aggressive," "Arrested," and nothing that was said did anything to give us an opportunity to smile. Even if I didn't understand it all, I heard it all, and we did not talk about his treatment.

Clifford had difficulty sleeping while we were in Paris. I held him and when he got too hot, I sat beside the bed and held his hand, until he fell asleep. He was hot all the time while we were in Paris, but it wasn't warm. They couldn't turn on the air conditioning in one room.

I got angry and told them I needed them to cool off the goddamn room.

A knock on the door ten minutes later and three men rushed in with electric fans.

I apologized for my poor form in the face of adversity.

Clifford laughed.

Once we were alone again, he said, "You were magnificent, Brand."

The fans moved the hot air in the room around. They didn't cool it any, but after having a good laugh, Clifford slept, until it was time to return for another treatment.

Clifford looked haggard. His eyes looked devoid of expression. He didn't complain.

He also stopped eating.

His appetite was nonexistent. He became thinner. He was thin when I met him. I remembered it was apparent he needed some meat on his bones.

I had cheese and crackers sent to the room, and he would eat some of the cheese and a few crackers. He couldn't have bourbon, and only coffee appealed to him. In the mornings, I ordered fresh fruits cut up into bite size pieces. Cantaloupe and strawberries appealed to Clifford, if he ate at all before another day of scientists, doctors, and the treatment.

I agonized for a week over what I could do for Clifford. In the end, we both knew there was nothing I could do for him. Clifford was dying. I did what I could to get a smile out of him. I didn't leave his side. I encouraged him.

After a week, I was worn out, but the day of his last treatment, he began to come back to life. We went out to eat that afternoon, and his appetite came back. He wasn't the life of the party, but he felt better almost immediately after the treatment ended.

I can say how difficult the treatments were for him, but it took more out of him each day. Only when they ended did he start to make a comeback.

I watched him closely and did my best to see to his every need. I did try to smile, but the concern was written all over my face. I could see it in his eyes when he would sit looking at my face. I imagined I looked haggard too. I felt haggard. I couldn't do anything about that.

A day later, as we went off to see Paris, he took me to an alfresco café. I looked around for a painting of some sort, but Clifford explained that fresco and alfresco weren't related in the French language.

I wasn't related to French, and the French speak at such a speed that I can't tell a word from a sentence, or a sentence from a word.

Needless to say, I did not pardez-vous francais.

I could say yes, no, and get lost, Buster. My French did get a few smiles out of Clifford.

We ate at a French café, and when we ordered the duck, food kept coming to the table for two hours. Each time we finished with one delightful dish after another. There was soup and then a salad. There were tidbits that consisted of meats, cheeses, and delicious meats, and we hadn't had the duck yet. An hour and a half after we sat down, we came to dessert. I was stuffed, but I couldn't stop eating. I hadn't eaten much in a week.

Clifford ate a bit of everything. He said in Europe, people don't rush through dinner and then go out on the town. Dinner was being out on the town, and people savored their food.

I more gobbled my food, but as a kid, it was the only way I got enough, and if my brothers and sisters got there first, I might not get anything. This wasn't like that. I did try to slow my pace of packing it away, but it was so good, I couldn't help myself. If I lived in France, I would be as big as all outdoors.

If the language left me cold, their food warmed me all over. The French know food.

That night, over a platter of fruit, nuts, and meat we had delivered to the room, we talked.

"Let's fly to Munich. We'll rent a car and drive to Innsbruck. There is a small chalet, maybe forty of fifty guests. They have a huge fireplace next to huge windows where we can watch the skiers. I don't ski any longer. I like seeing the snow and watching people on the slopes."

We got on the Lear jet and flew to Munich, where we rented a car. I drove while Clifford directed me to where he wanted to go.

"Why do they all drive on the wrong side of the road?"

"It's the right side of the road for them."

It wasn't the right side of the road. They drove on the left side of the road. I didn't argue, but I knew my right from my left. They drove on the left side of the road.

I got accustomed to it faster than I thought I might, but when he told me to turn, that's when I got confused. Turning off the left side of one road onto the left side of another road, made me question whether I was on the right or the left.

I began to appreciate having a driver to figure out what side of the road we're on.

I had never skied and I lived in Florida because I liked warm weather, but sitting in a ski chalet suited me fine. The fireplace had a bonfire going night and day. It radiated heat as we drank and ate near the fireplace, watching skiers ski.

Clifford was looking like he felt better, and in Innsbruck the color returned to his cheeks. As he regained some spontaneity and energy, I started having more fun. The fun wasn't in Munich or Innsbruck. The fun was in watching Clifford perk up. He loved the places we went.

I loved Clifford.

After three days in the snow, we drove to Bavaria, and I got a lesson in how close everything was in Europe. We stayed in a Bavarian hotel across the street from a beer hall. Where else would Americans stay in Germany. With the beer came the most delicious sausage, sauerkraut, and meats of all kinds that went perfectly with the beer.

I ordered different kinds of beer. Each had its own distinctive flavor. Germans knew beer, and I could have lived there with no trouble at all, only most of them didn't speak English,

I did no better with German than I did with French, but when German's said something, you knew they were serious about it.

After four days in Bavaria, we drove a few hours through a wonderful mountain range, ending up in Venice, Italy.

"These are the Alps," Clifford told me. "I had seen a sign, but when Clifford said, "These are the Alps," a bell rang in my head.

"In the second Punic War, Hannibal took elephants across the Alps to invade Rome," I remembered.

"Why would anyone want to bring elephants up here?" Clifford asked.

"Because he could, and it so frightened the Roman's, they often turned tail and ran away."

Venice was how I imagined Italy would be.

We took a place on one of the canals. Gondolas passed by all day long, and some Gondoliers sang to their clients as they moved from one canal to another. We sat on the balcony and watched them and listened. It was pleasant and romantic. How could Romeo and Juliet not fallen in love in a country as beautiful as this?

If the food in France and Germany was wonderful, Italian food was better. They didn't rush meals in Italy either. Food was to be savored, let settle, and once it did, they brought you more. Each night I had a different Italian dish for dinner.

I wanted to take the cook home with us, when the subject of going home came up after a month traveling around Europe. Each day we started out, and we weren't sure where we might end up. Clifford might remember something as we drove, and we were off to explore places he had gone to before.

By Italy, Clifford was back to being Clifford, and we laughed, ate our way through most days, and we even drank a couple of evenings, even if he wasn't supposed to drink.

We were living while we were alive. I never traveled the way we traveled, after we left Paris. I liked familiar things, and I loved Europe, and every new discovery was an adventure.

Rome was further from Venice than Bavaria was from Venice, but we stopped for a few days in Tuscany for laughs, and even better food than we had in Venice. By the time we reached Rome, we had been in Europe for a month, and Rome was a city you couldn't see in a month, or even a year.

Once you've been to Rome, you truly begin to understand how great the Roman Empire was.

Rome was where the action was for centuries. The Roman Empire didn't rule the entire world, but they ruled their portion of it, and civilization became what Romans said it was. They dictated everything, which included its art and religion.

Roman's crucified Jesus. The Roman Emperor Constantine declared Jesus's divinity.

Two thousand years ago, Rome stood out as a civilization that set the standard for what was to become the civilized world. Rome sat at the center of the known universe in its day.

"Vic, I'll need the Lear jet soon. I want to fly from Rome to Daytona . Yes, we're coming home, but not to stay. We have other plans for a month or more. I'm fine, Vic. No, I'm not wearing myself out. I'm in love, Vic. I am free as a bird and as high on life as you can get."

We flew to Daytona in time for the Daytona 500. It was perfect weather, and the race was as exciting as anything I had seen. I wasn't big on auto racing, but you can't sit in the stands watching forty cars driving at 200mph and not feel the thrill.

We flew from Daytona Beach to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. Clifford knew someone, and he arranged for us to have a seat on one of the floats .

We sat holding hands as we were cheered and adored by spectators along the parade route. Then, we ate in the French quarter and stayed. We fell into bed after the parade in a hotel right off the French Quarter. We had eaten our fill and weren't in the mood to drink that night. We had been in motion for quite a while, and it was time to return home.

Kasim met us at the airport, and we ended up at Clifford's place.

Clifford was worn out. I was probably more worn out than he was. He was doing something he had done before, and I was doing something I had never done before. Being with Clifford made every minute of it joyful.

I had never wanted to travel the world. I went because it was what Clifford needed to do at this time in his life. Since I was with Clifford, I went where he needed to go. I had the time of my life. The language deal had me staying home in America before I met Clifford. The language thing turned out not to be such a big deal. If you ran into a situation that had us stymied, someone would say, "Fritz, come speak to our guests."

A lot of people in France, Germany, and Italy spoke English. In France, some of the doctors and scientists came from English speaking countries, and most spoke English, and when they didn't, they brought someone with them who did, if they came to talk.

I could say hello, goodbye, and thank you. Anything else, I left it up to Clifford.

The travel didn't wear me out like I imagined it would. Each new place was exciting to see, and the food, well, there were a lot of things I knew nothing about, and the delicious food in other places was one. I would never look at a menu the same way again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Each morning Kasim drove us to the pier, and we walked out to the end to look out at the vast Atlantic Ocean. It started to warm by the time we returned to Florida, but the wind still whipped our clothing. I was accustomed to the pier by then. I didn't feel the attraction that Clifford felt, but I went where he went. The pier was fine with me if we were together.

"That's where I want to go," Clifford said one morning as we stood looking out at the ocean.

I looked where he was looking, but there was nothing but water and sky.

"Where?" I asked him.

"See where the water seems to end?"

"Yeah."

"See where the sky begins?"

"Yeah."

"That's where I want to go."

"The horizon," I said.

"That's it. I want to go out to the far horizon."

"We can rent a boat. If that's where you want to go, I'll take you," I told him, unable to grasp what he was telling me.

"No, Silly. That's where I want to go when I die. The horizon... I want to go to the horizon."

There it was again. It was the truth of the matter. It was a truth I wanted to deny, but the ending of our story was written before we met. Finding each other was an accident, and losing Clifford would be a tragedy.

I never met anyone like him. How could I live without him?

I didn't know if I could go on living without him. I didn't know I wanted to.

I did my best not to think about death. When I use to think about death, it was my own.

We held hands as we left the pier. We didn't show affection in places where it wasn't a good idea to do it, but time was running out, and we needed to stay close. I needed to stay close.

Kasim picked us up early one morning, and we drove to Key West. It was a beautiful day, and the drive was as pretty as any drive gets. I drove all over Europe, and Kasim driving was a relief. The drive from one island to the next had to be one of the most beautiful drives in the world.

I was with the most beautiful man in the world, and Clifford was still up for each day as we got up and were ready to go off on our latest adventure.

We sat in Sloppy Joe's bar and imagined Ernest Hemingway sitting with us. We each had a beer, but only one, because we both got silly when we drank.

We walked from Sloppy Joe's to a bookstore nearby.

Kasim laughed as he carried out a dozen Hemingway novels to the white Cadillac.

As we drove back, I read from, "For Whom the Bells Toll."

We immersed our days in Hemingway. I read to Clifford as we held hands, and whether we were in the car or in the penthouse, I read to him.

"You really want to go to Frontier Days?"

I read between the lines.

"I want to be here with you. If Frontier Days happens, it is one more place we go together. I'm happy no matter where I am, as long as I'm with you," I told him.

We had slowed down somewhat.

Clifford became lethargic after another trip to Paris. We flew straight there. A week later we flew straight back. I read to him while he got the treatment. I read to him on the plane; I read to him once we were home. We had worked our way through half the Hemingway novels we bought while in Key West.

"Do you think Hemingway knew how famous he was?" Clifford asked as I read from The Sun Also Rises.

Hemingway created the pictures I imagined while reading his tales of adventure.

"I don't think anyone can really know the impact they are having, until after they are dead."

"Do you think there is an after you die, Brand?"

"Of course there is. It's where we'll meet one day. If I go first, I'll show you around once you get there. If you go first, you'll show me around."

I wanted to believe that more than I had believed anything.

I picked up where I left off. He held my hands. I ignored his tears. He ignored mine. We were on a road together, and at the end of that road was a big sign: Dead End.

I felt death coming closer to me each day. I held desperately to Clifford. Except for the morning drives out to the pier, we hardly left the penthouse.

We were alive, and we were going to enjoy every damn minute of it, no matter how few minutes were left.

It was on a Monday. Kasim picked us up at our place, and when we got to the pier, I pushed his wheelchair out to the end, and we held hands and watched the horizon.

We didn't talk much. Clifford didn't have much to say. There would be no more trips to Paris. They released him from the trial. On the last day, all the doctors, nurses, and Pasteur Institute workers came to say goodbye. Most did so with tears in their eyes. .

Clifford smiled, and he was strong, telling them, "I'll be fine. I'll always remember you."

As I stood beside him at the end of the pier, holding his hand, I was back in Paris for those final goodbyes.

I pushed his wheelchair out to the Peugeot, helping him into the back seat while the driver stowed it away for the trip to the airport.

The pilot carried Clifford up the stairs and into the plane. I tried. I couldn't lift him. He didn't weigh much, but I couldn't carry him up those stairs.

He was haggard. He looked haggard. I was haggard, I looked haggard.

I wanted to stay strong for him, and I couldn't even carry him up the stairs of the plane.

"Brand," he said, bringing me back to the here and now,

"I'm right here, Babe."

"Lean closer," he said. "I have something to tell you."

I leaned to put my ear close to his mouth.

"I love you so much. These have been the happiest days of my life."

I couldn't stop crying. I cried the rest of the day. I couldn't read. I couldn't breathe.

He went to sleep in my arms, as he always did, I hadn't left him since Paris.

I woke up at my usual time, around dawn. He was cold. I knew he was gone. I knew he would be gone. He left me sometime early on Tuesday morning.

We met on a Tuesday.

I held him for a long time. Once I gathered myself together, I gave him a final kiss.

I got up and went to the phone to call Vic. He sobbed when I told him. I sobbed when I told him. You make the arrangements. I can't, Victor."

I sat in the window looking out at the Atlantic for a couple of days. They brought me food I didn't eat. I didn't have much of an appetite for anything now that Clifford was gone.

I couldn't stay in the apartment. It was mine as long as I wanted, but I couldn't live there. Clifford was all over his place, and it was his place. I had a fine place of my own, and once we took care of his final requests, I would go home to where I belonged.

There was a knock on the door sometime later. When I opened it, Kasim was there.

"Do you need anything? Do you want to go anywhere?"

I smiled. I liked Kasim.

"After we…, we take care of his last wishes. Can you drive me across to my place. I don't want to bother the pilots. I need some time, Kasim."

"It's what I do, Mr. Brand. When you are ready to go, I'll pick you up. We'll take care of Clifford in the morning. It's five hours across if you want to go then."

"Yes, right after we finish. We'll go then?"

I had run out of tears by the time they brought his ashes to me. They were in a colorful container. Clifford would have liked it. Victor probably picked it out.

I stood at the windows overlooking the Atlantic one last time. How many times had I stood there with Clifford, while he held hands and looked out.

I carried his pillow. My white suit, and Clifford down with me.

Kasim was standing beside Maximilian, Lucian, and Victor.

Kasim held the door as we all got in the Cadillac. Victor got in his car to follow us. Kasim walked around the car and got into the driver's seat.

Fifteen minutes later, we stopped next to the pier.

We walked out to the end, ignoring the fisherman and the sightseers.

"Clifford, I'll be seeing you on the far horizon," I said, opening the container, allowing the ashes to escape on the fresh morning air.

Clifford hung there in air for a second before a gentle breeze carried him toward the horizon.

Kasim patted my back.

Maximilian said, "Rest in peace, My friend."

Victor sobbed.

I keep the container that held Clifford's ashes on my fake marble mantle over my fake fireplace along with a picture taken of us in Venice.

I'm doing far better than I thought I could. I never loved anyone the way I loved Clifford.

We were good together, and losing him was hard on me, but there is a little bit of ash on the inside of that pretty container. I carry it around with me and I talk to Clifford some days. On other days I sit in my comfortable chair and talk to him.

I feel his presence. I see him smiling, after I made him laugh. My memories are vivid. They'll need to do until I am ready to take my final journey. I'm in no hurry. I learned not to rush things, while I was with Clifford. He taught me a lot.

Best of all, he taught me that true love is forever.

Epilogue

I see Clifford in my dreams.

I never believed in heaven before, but I believe in heaven now.

I'll get there in my own time. It gives me something to look forward to, and each day I feel myself moving closer to the far horizon.

The End of 70 Plus 50

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was told by a reader, "You are the only author to reply to my email."

I do answer every email. Where would I be without my readers?

Peace & Love,

Rick


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