Back in the closet

My younger brother Marty called me this morning and the very first thing out of his mouth was, “I’m coming out of the closet.”

Seriously, and I am on the West Coast recuperating and he, on the East Coast, somewhat retired, having moved into some new loft space, calling at some ungodly hour but probably about 8 AM his time, waking me, and the first thing I hear is this middle aged man, my own brother, a man who has had a couple of wives and a decent amount of women, although to be honest, he has been what I prefer to call the “portal to the other side” because the vast majority of his ex-girlfriends and both of his ex-wives are now out and proud lesbians. So, this man calling and waking me and telling me he is coming out of the closet is not the biggest surprise, although waking me seems a bit dramatic.

That a brother calls and begins a very early morning conversation with “I’m coming out of the closet.” To which, I replied, with searing sarcasm, I promise, “I am not surprised in the least.”

“Now I am in my bedroom, wait, did you think I meant I was gay? God you’re a moron. In my bedroom now, wood floors, still nothing on the walls, exposed brick, may not put anything there because the worn brick kind of creates it’s own artful pattern.”

“You have any idea what fucking time it is?”

“About 8:10?”

“I’m in California.”

“Oh, so about 5:10?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow and you’re awake that early?”

“I am now. Do I need this tour of your new super cool loft right now?”

“Barbara’s dead.”

My mind, barely functioning, barely awake, filled with blood and oxygen and all those other chemicals that wakes the illegal Chinese immigrants who work in my head and function in all sorts of important duties to keep me alert and smart. I sat up. I was trying my best to remember Barbara. I thought he was married to Becky. I was almost sure of that, but I am not good with names. I know my dog is named Beth. I know I have a cat named Stupid. I know I have a number of children who don’t really care what I call them and I know I have at least 5 ex-wives, all of whom prefer that I never call them anything, weird how that worked out. Still, the name Barbara did not ring a bell.

“Who is Barbara?” I asked.

“My parrot, Sheila got her.”

“Who is Sheila?”

“My transsexual cat.”

“I did not know you had a cat.”

“Yeah, Sheila, but she really is a boy cat, named Stan. It’s a long story, but now, Sheila is a killer. A parrot killer.”

“Sad really. I guess.”

“Bonnie moved out.”

“Bonnie another pet?”

“You went to our wedding last year.”

“I thought her name was Becky.”

“You think all women are named Becky. Bonnie said she needed more space and you know what that means.”

“No, it usually means she needs more space.”

“In this case she needed more space with her new friend, Carlita.”

“Seriously? Bonnie needs more space with a hot Latin woman named Carlita?”

“I kid you not. But why would you have to say “hot Latin woman? Was that really necessary?”

“Well, for my fantasy it is, yes.”

“It’s not always about you.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Anyway, I guess that’s why I really called, Bonnie left me for Carlita.”

“So that is your super power. You’re amazing. How many woman have you flipped?”

“Counting Bonnie? Eight.”

“No way. You are like the lighthouse to lesbianism. Hello and goodbye. What is it about you that tells a woman, this hetro thing is not working for you?”

“I never gave it much thought.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Get a new parrot.”

“No, I mean. Yeah, never mind.”

“Right now, I’m going back in the closet, I have shoes to arrange.”

“Of course.”