Tasting the Kiss

 

 

 

 

 

“Yes ma’am. Pansies,” Bert said, while staring at the empty garden bed in the front of 920 Palm Dr, Beverly Hills.

Mrs. Pollanti began again, “Not those silly little pansy-weeds. You know the kind, Bert. The Howers have them going up the front walk. Dreadful aren’t they?” She pulled at a leaf growing out from the flat side of a border-hedge of boxwood.

“Yes ma’am. You want the large face viola”

Mrs. Pollanti faced Bert, cocked her head to the side, placed her hands on her hips and said. “Not violets dear. They won’t hold up. That’s why I want pansies planted now. They’ll be absolutely beautiful for Thanksgiving. I’m having the Monsignor, you know. You planted them in back for Easter. Remember dear?

“Yes ma’am. That’s what pansies are – violas.”

“Look dear, I’ll get a picture of them from my seed catalog. That will make it easier for both of us. Won’t it?

Now I want happy faces on the pansies, not dark dreary colors, but pretty happy faces. You stay here dear, and I’ll run in and get the picture for you. I want them just like they are in the catalog.

“Yes ma’am. I’ll just finish up while you find that picture.”

Bert turned to the hoe and rake leaning on the wall at the end of the garden bed, while Mrs. Pollanti walked to the entrance of her house. Her shoes clicked on the faux cobblestones leading up the walkway. A Sycamore grew by the side of the front entrance, casting dappled light through the end of summer leaves. The ripples of sunlight played on the circular driveway. Bert picked up his tools, then tilted his head upwards, and squinted his eyes, to figure the amount of extra work required to carefully rake out the Sycamore leaves from Mrs. Pollanti’s bed of violas just before her - to die for - Thanksgiving. Taking his tools to the truck parked in the circular driveway, he carefully placed them in the niches of the bed to hold them steady. After that, he went to the cab of the truck, and took a well-used calendar and wrote a note in the space before Thanksgiving.

The front door clicked shut and the clatter of shoes on cement cobble neared the truck.

“Now here’s the picture of the pansies I want. You see, not violets, but pansies. They’re bright and pretty aren’t they Bert?” Mrs. Pollanti thrust the picture in front of Bert to show him.

“I’ll make sure you get just what you want Mrs. Pollanti.” He took the picture of the violas and placed it in the shirt pocket of his red plaid shirt. “I made a note to come here the day before Thanksgiving and make sure everything looks good for your special day, Mrs. Pollanti.”

     “Oh, Bert you’re such a sweetheart. That would be wonderful. Thank You!” Mrs. Pollanti smiled and placed her hand on Bert’s arm.

     “No problem, I’ll be back in two days with pansies that will dazzle you.”

     “Bye, Bert and thanks again,” Mrs. Pollanti said, smiling as her shoes clattered on her way to the front door.

     Bert got behind the wheel of his truck and pulled out of the driveway making a right turn on the street.

 The cell phone, attached to a belt loop on the side of his khaki shorts rang, “Bert’s landscape and garden service,” he said.

“It’s me,” Dave said.

     “What’s goin on?”

     “I’m painting”

     “What color?”

     “Let me look … Seagull Blue.”

     “Are you painting the closet door?”

     “You know I always start there.”

     “When did you break up?”

     “Yesterday.”

     “How much blue did you buy?”

     “Home Depot had a sale. I bought five gallons.”

     “That should cover the closet and the room.”

     “We didn’t have anything in common.”

     “How was the sex?”

     “Hot as hell. Oh, he is going to regret this, but I won’t have him back.”

     “How many times have you called?”

     “I don’t know, maybe ten, but I’m not leaving any more messages. If he wants to hear from me, he’ll have to call. I’m finished.”

     “You have to be tough, or they’ll walk all over you, and then where are you? Painting the closet door.”

     “Don’t get smart, Mr. Home-alone.”

     “Hey, sorry okay? So, want to grab some dinner tonight?”

     “Sounds good, where?” Dave said.

     “How about the French Market? I’ll drive.”

     “I can’t stay late, I have to get up early”

     “I know, I know. Great, I haven’t been there in a while and who knows, maybe I’ll meet that certain guy.”

     “I’ll be happy if the waiter brought the food while it was still hot.”

     Bert saw flashing lights in his rear view mirror. “Damn. Dave I gotta go, a cop wants me to pull over.”

     “I’ll buy dinner. See you later.”

Bert pulls his truck over to the curb while the patrol car followed, parking behind Bert with lights flashing. Bert, wondering what he did wrong, watched the patrolman talk into a mouthpiece. The policeman got out of his patrol car; he was tall and filled the uniform well. He walked up to the passenger window of the truck. Bert rolled the automatic window down as the officer bent his head to look at Bert through the open window.

     “Your hose is dragging,” the officer said.

     Bert wavered a moment, not sure what the officer said. “Pardon?”

     “Your garden hose. It’s dragging behind the truck, looks like it came loose from the side panel.”  

     “Oh, Jeez. Thanks officer for telling me.” Bert gave a smile of relief, and opened the driver’s door; he walked to the back of the truck where ten feet of brown garden hose laid strung out in the street, like a skinny snake; it had partially unwrapped from the remaining coil attached to a hook on the truck’s panel. Cars on Santa Monica Boulevard slowed as they moved by.     

     “The bungee cord came off. Sorry about that officer.” Bert grabbed a bungee from the well of the truck, re-coiled the hose and fastened it with the new bungee. He turned to see a broad smile with dimples on each end. A cleft cut the middle of the officer’s square chin. “Next time you get busy on the phone, look around, you might see someone trying to get your attention.”

The patrolman’s glasses reflected Bert’s blushing face.

     “Sorry officer. I’ll be more careful from now on.” Bert gave a smile and wink to the standing patrolman.

     “I have a greenhouse myself,” the patrolman said, looking into the truck at the assorted plants and tools. “I have a decent collection of orchids.”

     “Orchids?” Bert’s voice raised an octave.

     “Why not orchids, interesting plant; I think… Anyway, pay more attention to your driving. I won’t cite you, just consider yourself warned.” His smile waned to a line across his lips.

     “Here take my card; I know some people who sell rare orchids.” Bert reached into his shirt pocket, and handed the patrolman a paper.

     The officer took the offered piece and looked.

     “This is a picture of pansies.”

     Bert’s smile curled in a grimace, he reached for the photo of the pansies. “Oh, sorry.” He reached back in his pocket and looked to make sure his hand found a business card. “Here it is. My card.”

     “Bert’s landscape and garden service,” The cop read. “Well Bert, I’m Cliff. Officer Cliff Dodson, from the West Hollywood sheriff division.

     “Nice to meet you, Officer Dodson. Thanks for saving my hose, they’re not cheap.”

     “Sure thing Bert. Stay off the phone, or pull over and talk from now on. I’ll give you a call if you don’t mind.” The grin with matching dimples spread again on the officer’s face. The sheriff touched the brim of his hat and walked back to his cruiser.

Bert went to the cab of his truck stepped in and started the engine. Making sure his turn signal was on, he steered the car back into traffic and drove down the street. Looking in his rear view mirror, he saw the officer pull back out into the traffic, and make a left turn at the light.

 

     The French Market sat on Santa Monica Boulevard like a Grande dame. Her New Orleans motif stood complete with gaslights, overflowing flower boxes, wrought iron work, and sidewalk dining. Inside café diners viewed shops selling cards for any gay occasion, clothes for any gay event, and whimsy to catch the eye. A bastion for queer folk to browse, cruise, and mingle.  

“He likes orchids,” Bert said, before taking a bite from his salad.

     “You said that already, but can he fix a ticket?” Dave asked, after two gulps of ice tea.

     “They can’t fix tickets.”

     “Doesn’t hurt to ask does it?”

     “I’m not going to ask him that.” Bert watched David stick a steak fry with his fork.

     “You could buy him an orchid at Vons Market, and tell him it’s his if he can make a ticket go away.” David stabbed another steak fry.

     “I didn’t get a violation, for Christ’s sake.”

     “You could, and then you got yourself a ‘get out of jail card’.” David swirled the steak fries in a puddle of ketchup before bringing it to his mouth.

     “What is wrong with you? The guy likes Orchids, and you want me to ask him if he takes bribes?” Bert stabbed a crouton with his fork.

     “You’re not from New York, I am, and this is important. It could save you a couple of hundred.”

     “I could go to jail.”

     “You won’t go to jail, that’s what the orchid is for- it’s a gift. Got it? You know the trouble with you West Coast people? You don’t know how to bargain.” David took a big bite from his hamburger squeezing secret sauce out from the sides.

     “Bargain? I don’t want to bargain, I want a date.”

 The waiter came by filling their ice teas and said, “Don’t we all.” Bert looked up at the waiter who winked at him before moving to the next table.

“Anyway, he probably won’t call. I felt like the biggest dork saying, ‘orchids?’ Like a cop has to be into attack dogs or something.”

“Why would a cop tell you he likes orchids? He can see you’re a gardener. He wants to make a deal.” David took the ketchup bottle and refilled the reservoir next to his fries.

“Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to meet me. Did you ever think of that?” Bert stabbed at a piece of chicken breast in his salad.

“Why would a cop want to date a gardener?”

“And, why not a gardener?” Bert raised his voice staring at David about to take a bite of his hamburger.

David put the hamburger down and stared back. “They’re a dime a dozen. He probably thinks you don’t have enough sense to get a good job.”

“I’m my own boss, I like what I do! Which: by the way, is a hell of a lot better than your job, sitting behind a computer screen, punching a keyboard, hoping to stay awake!”

“I make good money; you smell like steer manure.” David chomped at the middle of his burger.

“I don’t whine forty minutes on the phone about, why I hate my job. Why don’t you get another job if you hate it there?” Bert grabbed his ice tea and drank half of it, and then picked up his fork, and stabbed the lettuce.

“I have my 401, paid vacation, and health insurance. What do you have?”

“Peace of mind.”

“Is he hot?” David picked up his napkin and wiped the secret sauce from his mouth.

“Hot is not the word, he took my breath away.” Bert looked at the white carnation sticking out of the bud vase on the table.

“I dated a cop once.” David stuck the last piece of hamburger in his mouth and munched. “Drank like a hooker on Saturday night.” He then finished off the ice tea.

“Good grief David, where did you meet him?”

“New York.” 

 

The bed of violas sparkled in the afternoon dappled light. Mrs. Pollanti gave her benediction on the pansies that would give her front walk just the ticket needed for a successful Thanksgiving feast. Bert, pleased by a good customer’s happiness over his work, started to whistle a tune he heard on the radio that morning. The late September wind brought a hint of change; a slight crispness in the breeze chilled the air just slightly. A spray from Bert’s garden hose misted the tender young plants with fresh buds ready to burst. Splashes of bright color here and there, from young flowers, sparkled in the garden bed. He finished the spraying and gathered his equipment for the next job. The melody he whistled ceased. He turned off the music from the radio in the cab and drove the truck to his next customer in Beverly Hills.

Juan Botero lived in a red brick manor. Stately and pristine, it sat on a magnolia-shaded lane. A large driveway wound up a small hill to an arch, where a three-car garage with living quarters above sat. Bert parked the truck near the arch where the driveway entrance goes to the back. He unloaded an assortment of tools and plants, and then got back in the truck and drove around to the side of the house and parked. The truck was now no longer visible from the front. He got out of the parked truck and walked back to the arch where his supplies were, picking up part of the equipment and marching to the backyard Bert heard a side door shut.

“One moment please,” a male voice said.

“Yes sir,” Bert said, closing his eyes for a moment then opening them, and turning in the direction of the voice.

“You’re not planning to leave that stuff out in the drive are you?”

“No, Mr. Sanders, I’m not; I just got here and was taking what I could carry to the back.”

“I’m having a friend over soon. Would you pick up the rest of your equipment, and please keep the noise down, I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Do you want me to use the mower?”

“Well, of course I want the lawn cut. You are the gardener aren’t you? Just try to be quiet.”

Bert looked at the young man wearing no shirt. His blond hair sat perfectly in place with blue eyes that glowed from a tanned face. A tanned chest with no hair and perfect gym symmetry flowed down to a narrow waist where hung very short white shorts.

“Mr. Botero still owes me for the last two months. Did he receive my bill?”

“Juan is on location. Do you think I should call him because the gardener needs money? He is in France. Where I’m sure the only thing on his mind is your bill.”

Bert looked for a moment at the beefcake blonde speaking in a voice that sounded like a twelve-year old girl at a sock-hop. He wondered if Juan knew his twink was a whore when he was on location, or for that matter, even cared. Placing his tools near a faucet in the back, he retrieved the rest of the equipment while the blonde pranced back into the house to await his guest. He thought it best to mow first, before the beefcake’s company arrived. The sun warmed the backyard, as sweat soaked through the long sleeve shirt, while the mower crossed the expansive lawn. A short while later, the back lawn was cut and manicured. Grabbing as many tools as he could, he placed them on the mower and juggled his way to the front yard, and over to where his truck stood. Just as he began to start the engine on the mower, a black Cadillac pulled up in the drive stopping near the arch. Bert watched a tall man with a leather outfit get out of the car. Chains on his left side jingled as he walked up to the side door. He heard the buzzer and shortly afterwards the door shut. Bert pulled the cord on the mower and smiled. The blonde would be too busy to worry about any noise.

     Late afternoon brought slow traffic in the rush to get home. The sun hung on the edge of the horizon, casting long shadows on the house Bert rented. He drove his truck up the driveway to the garage by the side of the house.

     Two dogs jumped and whined at the back gate where the weary gardener unloaded his tools.

     “Settle down now, I’m home,” Bert said to the two happy dogs. “Sugar, sit.” A dog with one floppy ear and big brown eyes, immediately sat watching her master. “Spice, lay down” The black overweight dog looked up at Bert then over at Sugar and finally sat down. “What good doggies you are.” He gave each a treat from a container he kept in the truck for his customers’ dogs.

     The dogs gulped their biscuits in seconds and followed Bert into the house with tail’s wagging. Bert went straight to the bedroom removing articles of clothing as fast as he could. Stripped down and ready for a shower the three marched to the bathroom. While the dogs guarded the entrance to the bath, Bert gave song and shower a good going over. Sugar and Spice loved hearing Bert’s voice from the shower and often joined in the melody. Clean and fresh in a terry robe, he went to the kitchen to fix them all the evening meal when the phone rang.

     “Hello,” Bert said

     “Hi, Bert it’s Cliff, the sheriff that harassed you the other day.”

     “Hi, Cliff! I’m glad you called. Thanks again for saving my hose.” Bert nudged Spice off their favorite chair and sat down. The dog didn’t give up easily.

     “That’s what we’re here for, to protect and save garden hoses. I just bought a new one myself, after running over the old with the lawnmower. Man, what a racket that brass head made in the blades.”

     “I can imagine, I once caught a sprinkler head in mine. Sheared off the sprinkler and tore up my blades before I could blink.”

     “You mentioned that you knew people that sell rare orchids.”

     “Yes. Friends of my mother grow specimen orchids. I had a collection with my mom when I lived at home. She belonged to a local garden club.” Sugar sat between Bert’s legs, laying her head in the terry cloth lap. Bert rubbed the dog’s forehead while Spice waited to reclaim his chair.

     “Would you like to come over to my place and see my collection sometime?” The voice sounded hopeful to Bert’s ears.

     “That would be great! I could tell you what my mom’s friends might have to add to yours.”

     “I’m off this Sunday, which is rare. They usually give Sunday to the family men. Are you free?”

     Without even looking at the empty calendar Bert replied, “I would love to. Let me grab a pen and paper to write it down… Okay I’m back.” While Bert jumped up to get the pen, and paper Spice took the opportunity to seize the coveted chair. Bert gave in, standing with the phone nudged in his shoulder, with pen and paper in hand.

     “My phone is 555-1846. The address is 610 Kennington Dr, West Hollywood. Is ten in the morning good for you?”

     “Ten sounds great! I’m glad you called Cliff.”

     “So am I. Bye.”

     “Bye.” Bert got a dial tone, and called David.

     “Hello.”

     “Guess who called?”

     “Barbara Striesand wants you as her gardener. I knew you would make it big.”

     “Sweet. The cop called. I mean sheriff.”

     “I saw some orchids at the market today. I think they were around ten bucks. Want me to pick one up?”

      Bert sat on the carpet next to the chair that Spice took. “Thanks, but I can bait my own hook. We have a date this Sunday.” Bert reached out, and scratched Sugar at the base of her bent ear, while she sat next to him.

     “Sunday? How nice. Get some good soap, and scrub that horse manure off you.”

     “Maybe he likes horse manure, he smelt it next to my truck.”

     “I knew it! There had to be something kinky about this guy.”

     “Good grief! He has an orchid collection, I’m sure he has horse manure and a lot of other things that smell.” Bert was flipping Sugar’s ear back and forth while the dog panted and wagged her tail.

     “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

     “All right, you warned me. I’ll take the chance. What’s going on?”

     “I’m painting.”   

     “You just met the guy the other day.”

     “He was too needy.”

     “What color?”

     “Let’s see…Fawn.”

     “How much paint did you get?”

     “I only got a quart, it was ninety-nine cents.”

     “Lets see the room is, or was at the last report, Seagull-blue- I guess a light brown closet door would go with gray-blue walls.”

     “Yellow walls”

     “There was somebody in between?”

     “I had some yellow left over from a few months ago, and thought the room needed cheering up.”

     “Does color scheme mean anything to you?” Sugar’s leg began to thump to Bert’s scratching.

     “No, but paint on sale talks to me.”

     “I guess if you had a lover, the house would never get painted.”

     “I had one once, and painted all the time.”

     “I see, and that’s why we don’t have one now?”

     “Damn, gotta go I just messed up the door knob.”

     “Talk to ya later, bye.” Bert hung up, looked at the two dogs looking at him and said, “Lets have dinner.” The three marched into the kitchen and took their stations. The dogs watching while Bert prepared dinner.

    

     Bert drove his green Ford truck down Kennington Avenue until reaching number 610 where it pulled to the curb and stopped. He looked over at the modest house. A healthy green lawn met the sidewalk, which backed up to shrubs planted alongside a light-gray house with white trim and shuttered windows. The home had cedar shingles covering the roof, and birch trees planted in a group on the right side with a flowerbed running down the walkway. Taking the rearview mirror in hand, he twisted it to see his reflection, making sure his hair was combed, and nothing left sticking to his smile.

“Okay, here goes,” he said, as he got out of the truck, locked the door, and walked to the house. He rang the front doorbell and looked down to see if his belt lined up with the buttons on his shirt and the fly of his jeans. A last pull on his pants and deep breath, he waited trying not to let sweat form on his forehead.

The door opened to a guy in a white tank top and tan shorts. Black wavy hair dropped a curl on his forehead. His dark eyes sparkled and smiled. The dimpled grin spread across his face showing perfect white teeth. “Hey! Bert, glad to see you.” Cliff extended his hand, “Come in.”

“Hi Cliff, nice to see you without the badge.” Taking his hand to shake, Bert stepped into the house. Chamber music was playing on the sound system. A couch and two chairs sat facing each other with an oak coffee table and matching side tables on each end of the couch.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water or a soda would be nice.”

“Cola?”

“Sure! You have a great house, nice neighborhood too.”

“Thanks! The place needed a lot of repair when I bought it. I’ve spent most of my free time fixing it up.”

“Looks great.” A large orange and white tabby cat entered the room from the hallway. The tabby came up to Bert and looked at him with big green eyes.

“This is McGregor.” The cat gave a meow and brushed against Bert’s leg. Bert bent down, and scratched McGregor’s head. The cat began to purr, pressing against his leg.

“McGregor can be pushy at times. He likes you.”

“I have two dogs at home. Talk about pushy, Spice thinks the over-stuffed chair is his personal couch.”

“Let me get you that Cola.” Cliff walked to the kitchen through a short hallway adjoining the living room. Bert followed behind with McGregor. “Ice?”

Looking out of the kitchen window, above a café table and two chairs, Bert said, “Yes, thanks. That’s the greenhouse you mentioned?”

Cliff filled two glasses with ice from the freezer section of the refrigerator. “That’s it,” he then took out two cans of cola, popped the lids, and poured the contents into the glasses.

“You have a real nice setup.” Bert noticed the ventilation system, in front of the greenhouse, had automatic temperature control to keep the greenhouse at the correct level. A quality humidifier was at work as well. Whitewashed panes of glass made up the roof and walls of the greenhouse to diffuse the light.

“Built it myself, it took longer to save for the cost than to build it.” Cliff handed Bert his drink.

“Thanks! Well you did a hell of a good job. You must have worked a lot of overtime to pay for it.”

“That’s true. Getting overtime is easy- getting a day off is harder.” He opened the backdoor for them to walk to the greenhouse. “It’s my way to relieve stress. I come out here after work and I’m in another world. I hope to have my orchids as a paying hobby, to supplement my retirement.”

“Looks like you have a good start.” Bert stepped into the greenhouse when Cliff opened the door for him.

Looking around Bert noticed the wooden slat benches that held pots upon pots of orchid plants. Sub-species grouped correctly together and vast sprays of exotic and beautiful blooms.

“This is incredible! Do you go to the orchid shows?” Bert stared at the pristine display of plants. Clean, well maintained, walk paths of pebble. Fans overhead pushing air among the well marked orchids.

“I would go more often, but because of my job, I can’t be sure of getting the day off, even when I’ve put in for it.” Cliff began to automatically check the moisture of the roots as he went by pots of blooming plants. “The best I can do is catch one once in a while.” He reaches out to a pot of butterfly orchids that are tones of gold, purple and white. Three spikes jutted out, filled with blooms in perfect condition. “It’s taken seven years to bring this plant up to this level.”

“It’s beautiful, Cliff. Really is impressive.” Bert reached out to the plant and in doing so, touched Cliff’s hand holding the pot. His hand lingered as their eyes met. They stayed silent; the whirl of fans, the drip of water, the heady atmosphere of a man-made tropical forest enclosed them for a moment’s time.

“I don’t get to meet a lot of people who appreciate orchids,” Cliff said at last.

“Who could resist a sight as this?” Bert raised his hand and motioned around them.

“Do you think your friends would have something to add to my collection?” 

Bert looked about and then said, “You have some nice Phals, but I have a friend who has some interesting Phalaeopsis Gigantea from Borneo. The blooms are the size of a small plate.”

“I’d like to see them. Would he be interested in selling?”

“I’m sure he would. His prices are very reasonable.”

“Say, I am going to this big event in Beverly Hills. Some guy I gave a ticket to asked me, and to bring a friend. I’m pretty sure I’ll get the day off unless the city has a riot. They can’t give me any more overtime for a while. Would you like to go with me? We could see your friend’s green house the same day.” 

“What day?”

“Next Saturday. This guy looked like a movie star type. Driving a Lamborghini, said there would be a lot of movie people there.”

“Sure. Sounds like a great time.” Bert’s tone was less than thrilled.

“Wouldn’t it be something to rub elbows with a bunch of movie stars.” Bert could see the excitement in Cliff’s animated gestures while talking of the party.

“Yeah, Sure it would. I work for some movie stars, but I never thought of rubbing one.” Bert hoped that Cliff would get the pun; he didn’t.

“I’ll pick you up at your place next Saturday. We’ll go out to your friends and later you can drive over, and we’ll leave from here.”

“Perfect!” Bert said.

“You hungry?” Cliff put down the pot of orchids.

“Sure.”

“Let me take you to lunch at the French Market then.” Cliff’s smile was irresistible.

“If you’re treatin, I’m eatin.” Bert said grinning back.

 

The week went by quickly as Bert made his rounds to customer’s homes. Getting up earlier than usual and working later in the day, he saved time to go shopping with his friend David for the big date coming up with Cliff. He picked David up at his house; they then drove to the Beverly Center where fashion and gays mix.

“Did you see that guy?” David turned watching a slim well- built man stroll by with a package.

“What do you think of the shirt?” Bert said.

“Oh, he would look good in a burlap sack.”

“I’m talking about this shirt in my hand. You’re supposed to be helping me pick out the perfect shirt.”

“I’m colored blind, what are you going to wear with it?”

“You’re color blind? Is that why the walls in your place are so un-real?” Bert stared at his friend looking at the salesman at the nearby cash register.

“No. It’s because I can’t pass up a sale on paint.”

“Do you have any sense of taste?”

“Depends on how they look in a pair of jeans.”

“Good grief. Is that why I always see you in blue?”

“It goes with my eyes, can I help it if I happen to like blue.” David watched a young man checking the fit of his pants in a mirror.

“Why did you want to help me shop for the perfect outfit to impress Cliff with?”

“Any excuse to go to the Beverly Center. Besides you didn’t want to drive here alone.” Bert watched David accidentally on purpose bump a good-looking man near him. Picking up a shirt from the counter he said, “Oh sorry. Do you think this goes with my blue eyes?” while holding the shirt up in front of him.

“It would if your eyes were blue.” The man then walked away.

“Will you cut that out. You’re suppose to be helping me, not frisking the public for a date.”

“You should watch how I do it, then you wouldn’t be so needy with trying to impress Cliff.”

“I am going to leave you here if you don’t behave yourself.”

“I’ve been left in worse places. This is a gold mine for hotties!” David watched a couple shopping in the jewelry section nearby.

“Look. Just tell me if you think this shirt would look good on me.” Bert held the shirt up and put a thin smile on his face.

“Looks great! Really. How much?”

Bert searched and found the price tag. “Eighty-four dollars marked down twenty percent.”

“You could get it at Ross for less.”

“I’m not at Ross, and you never know what they will have. I want something new, something now. These people at the party are high tone. They probably go to London to shop.

“I bet London is a discount store in the valley”

“London is a city in England.”

“They could save money by going to Ross, and I know where London is.” David took the shirt from Bert, held it up in front of himself, and looked down.

A man nearby said, “Looks great babe.”

“Buy it, it’s worth any price.” David gave back the shirt to Bert and smiled at the man.

 

“Wow, you look swell!” Cliff’s smile went to both ears, while opening the door for Bert.

“Thanks! You’re not bad yourself.” Bert looked at the officer in a dark blue long sleeve shirt with dark gray slacks that made his waist look even smaller than it was.

“That was a great deal on the Phal and a real bonus to my collection. Your friend was very nice to show me his greenhouse.” Cliff put his hand on Bert’s shoulder and brought him close. He leaned towards Bert and gave him a gentle, lingering kiss on the lips.

Bert’s eyes closed, he swayed a little bit, tasting the kiss. “I’ve never been kissed by a sheriff before.”

Cliff leaned towards Bert again and gave another lingering kiss.

“You know, we could have our own party right here.” Bert tingled with excitement from the second caress. 

“What, and miss showing off a hot guy like you?” Cliff smiled and Bert smiled back. “Lets get going shall we, I have the car washed and ready for a prince of a guy.”

“Do sheriffs always say the right thing.” Bert felt his face flush as they walked out of the house.

“We’re trained for it, and trained very well.” Cliff put his arm around Bert while walking to the black SUV parked in the driveway. He clicked the automatic opener and a bleep emitted from the SUV. “Car’s opened, hop in.”

Both men buckled their seat belts once they were in the car and Cliff backed the car out of the driveway and drove towards Beverly Hills.

“Who’s having the party?” Bert asked while watching the crowds on Santa Monica Blvd.

“He signed his name Juan Botero on the ticket. He had this blond beefcake in the car with him.” Cliff kept his eyes on the traffic while driving.

“Oh... Cliff. Juan is a customer of mine.” Bert’s face was gray as a cement sidewalk.

“That’s great! I bet he will be surprised. He seemed like a real nice guy. He didn’t give me any problem at all on the speeding ticket.”

“Just didn’t want to embarrass you.” Bert’s voice sank with his face.

“Embarrass me? Why would you think that?”

“I’m his gardener, that’s why.”

“So? I gave him a speeding ticket. He wasn’t pissed about that. Come on now. We’re going to have a great time.” Cliff reached over and touched the side of Bert’s arm with his hand.

“I bet there will be a lot of movie stars. I took acting classes when I got out of the marines.”

     “Well you have the looks for a movie star.”

     “Thanks. I wanted to be an actor. My high school chums back in Topeka thought I should go to Hollywood and get in the movies. I tried, but there is a lot of people knocking on studio doors.” Cliff turned left onto a street where magnolia trees towered along the parkway.

     Valets parking cars and a brick manor on a hill came into view. Cliff drove the car up the driveway where attendants waited for him. A full moon glowed, like an enormous paper lantern, over the rooftop of the well-lit mansion. Music carried on a warm Santa Ana wind, swept by partygoers as the two men left the SUV. Voices fell and rose all around from young people, making the evening sparkle with gilded laughter.

     “Damn this looks like one hell of a party,” Cliff said while walking towards the entrance.

     “Sure does. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Bert stayed close to Cliff as the two walked towards a man checking off names.

     “Your name sir?” A large man in a suit asked holding a clipboard in his hand.

     “Cliff Dodson. It may be under Officer Cliff Dodson.”

     “Yes sir, you and your guest. Enjoy the party.”

     “Thank you.” The two men walked by into a hallway that led to a large room. Tables filled with catered food displayed on silver platters stood about. Vases of flowers flowed down among the tables splashing colorful arrangements in bright bold shades. Music drifted in from open French doors where drapes hung down and danced with currents of wind. Beautiful young people chatted and moved among the throngs of groups gathered about.

     “See that guy over there?” Cliff pointed in the direction of a bar where young men gathered waiting for their cocktails. “The one with the yellow shirt.”

     “Yeah I see him,” Bert said.

     “He’s, Earl Wilde the star of that action movie playing at the Dome.” Bert watched Cliff’s eyes dart about the room in search of more stars.

     “Hey. There’s the beefcake that was in the car with Juan Botero.” Cliff walked over to a blond man tanned and muscular, Bert following slightly behind.

     “Hello. I was the officer that stopped you last month. You were with Mr. Botero.” Cliff offered the man his hand.

     Grasping the offered hand, the blond said,” Yes, I remember. Glad you could come to our little gathering. I’m Lars Sanders, and this is Dick Kean, a producer at Walch studio,” Lars said, speaking of the man to his left.

     “Nice meeting you both, Cliff Dodson, and my friend Bert.”

     Lars looked at Bert then smiled. “What a small world we have indeed. Did you get your check?”

     “Yes. Thank you.” Bert’s face turned from red to crimson.

     “Our gardener to the stars.” Lars continued, “Tell me Cliff, have you worked with any of the studios when they go on location?”

     “No I haven’t, I’m just a sheriff at the West Hollywood division.”

     “Really, you look too good to be; just a sheriff. Doesn’t he Dick?” 

     “Absolutely,” the grinning producer said. “Have you been in movies Mr. Dodson?” 

     “No. I was though, the lead actor in my high school play back in Topeka, and I took some acting classes when I got out of the marines.”

     “Let me introduce you to Juan, the guy you gave the ticket to.” Lars put his arm around the sheriff and escorted him to another group of people nearby.

Bert, left standing by the producer said, “Nice party!”

“Yes.” The producer then turned his back, and walked towards another group.

Bert looked around to see Lars introducing Cliff to a group of young men. Juan Botero stood next to Cliff shaking his hand. Not wanting to interfere, he walked over to the bar for a drink.

“What would you like sir,” the bartender said.

“A Bud please”

“How about a San Miguel”

“Sure, just as long as it’s cold.”

The bartender reached down, opened a bottle of beer and poured it into a large plastic cup. “Here you are sir.”

“Thanks. How much?”

“It’s a free bar sir. Enjoy.” The bartender then went to the next person.

Taking the beer, he walked back to where he had last seen Cliff, who was no longer there. Looking around to see if he could spot him, he walked towards the French doors and out into the warm night. A band played on a platform built on the lawn in front of a wooden floor brought in for the party. Decorations and lights adorned the stage. Strobe lights and whirling flashes of color lit up the dancers on the makeshift floor. Studio smoke swirled around the dancers. People gathered nearby to watch, and perhaps to join in. The crowd grew and moved to the music, laughing, talking, and mixing easily with others while Bert watched from the side.

“Oops. Pardon me young man.” An elderly gentleman dressed in a suit and ascot bumped Bert with a drink in hand.

“Oh, that’s all right. Nothing damaged.” Bert’s new shirt now had a dark run on the side from the spilled drink.

Taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket the elderly gentleman began to dab at the stain. “So sorry really. I’m sure it will dry soon in this warm night air. Gin and water, no need to worry about a stain.”

“It’s alright really. I’m fine.” Bert pressed a paper napkin that he had against the shirt while the man pressed the handkerchief.

“Guess I’ve had enough, if I can’t hold on to one. Wouldn’t you say? What’s your name young man.”

“Bert. Bert Grover.”

“I’m Wallace Lampert, you can call me Wally.” The man said with a smile.

“Nice to meet you. I guess you’re in movies as well.”

“Yes and no. I played in a number of movies in the fifties when they were making them like popcorn in a theater. I do voiceovers now mostly. Some commercials when they need senility in a scene.” The man’s smile made Bert feel comfortable. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m the gardener here. I have my own business of gardening, mostly in the Beverly Hills area.”

“I didn’t know Lars was so hospitable to invite the help.”

“Oh, I was invited by my date. Lars didn’t know about it. To be honest, if I knew who was having the party, I don’t think I would have come.”

“Feeling a bit lonely are we. Why don’t we sit over there, It’s hard for me to stand anymore.” They walked over to where a garden bench with cushions sat nearby a flowerbed.

“That’s better. All those hours at the studio standing around have taken their toll on my legs. Where’s your date?”

“I can’t find him at the moment. We got separated in the crowd.”

“Well he’ll be coming by. Better to stay in one place then wandering around.”

“How do you know Lars?” Bert asked.

“Oh, I’m his auntie.”

“Auntie?”

“I found Lars at the Spotlight, where hustlers meet hubbies, and took him in. That’s how he met Juan. I can’t blame him of course. Why have an old man for a sugar daddy when you can have someone richer and better looking. This is all hush hush you know.” The old man chuckled.

“Don’t worry, I don’t know any of these people,” Bert said, looking around.

“I was just talking with one of the studio people. Lars has a sheriff he is parading around, a prop for his gala Halloween party. Lars is going as one the characters from Tom of Finland, and just has to have a real cop for his escort. So, damn phony. That’s Hollywood for you. Tinsel, make believe and glamour.” The old man chuckled again. “Well speak of the devil. There he is now, and that must be the sheriff. Good looking too wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes. He is isn’t he.” Bert’s face fell like a rock. He watched Cliff enjoying the party, and the company.

“Well I think I’m sober enough now for another drink. Can I get you one?” Wally asked.

“No thank you. I think I’m going to meander for a while. Nice meeting you.”

“Likewise.” The gentleman turned and walked towards the house.

Bert stared at Cliff, and his new friends. The music slowed, the party lights dimmed, the gaiety faded into a tunnel of thoughts. He stood with heavy feet and walked to the edge of the party. Holding tears at bay, fighting the empty feeling in his gut, he sipped at his beer, and looked at the night sky.

 

The phone rang and Bert answered. “Hello,” he said.

“How was the party?” David asked.

“What are you doing?”

“Painting.”

“What color?”

“Let me look… London gray.”

“Where?”

“The closet of course. Remember the salesman at the Beverly Center? Turned out he had a lover.”

“Dave?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I help?”

“Sure bud… come on over.”

 

The End.