This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Sixteen

(Friday, October 7th)

Dad stands up, rips Raph off his chair, and hugs him tightly. "There's nottin' to be afraid of, Son. And there's certainly nottin' to be ashamed of. This is only a slight hitch, and for every hitch, there's a solution." He takes out his neatly folded handkerchief and wipes Raphie's tears." Dad is then able to cheer him up. "If ya want, Son, I'll talk to yer ma. Ya don't have to go it alone." He wipes Raphie's tears again.

"Would you do that for us, Joey?"

"Of course, yus'r me two sons. I've always seen ya'n Dan as brothers. Only some brothers just have different parents. All of this shite is part of growin' up. And yus have had to grow up awfully fast in the past couple of weeks."

"Sometimes, I wonder if it's worth it." This comes out as a philosophical question not as despondency.

Dad laughs. "Whatta ya think, yer feckin' Peter Pan?" He pats Raph on the shoulder. "And Yus better get movin', if yus'r going get everythin' done, taday. I'll start down here." Raph runs up the stairs and then sees me working my way up with the heavy box. He hurries back down to give me a hand. "Take a shower, both a yus," Dad yells after us. "and fer Christ's sake open a window, up there. Smells like a feckin' maison de passe."

Raph and I stop on the stairs with the box; he grins at me with his eyebrows raised, and I shrug with that sort of surprised looking frown, which indicates ignorance. I have absolutely no idea how Dad knows the French word for whorehouse.

We shower and dress; it's good to have some clean clothes, since Raph and I haven’t done the laundry. I half expected to find a naughty surprise from Mildred, but it is obvious that Dad packed the box. "What do you want to wear, Raph?"

"You don't mind?" His voice is barely audible.

"That's the second time this week that you have asked that." I grin at him. "The next time I just might say that I do."

He takes a blue oxford-cloth, button-down shirt and a pair of jeans. I take the red oxford-cloth shirt. We check ourselves in his mother's full-length mirror and rush downstairs.

"The British foreign service will be proud of yus. Yus look like the feckin' Union Jack."

"What's that?" asks Raphie.

"The flag of yer new country. No stars, just stripes." Dad laughs and tosses me his car keys. "Hope ya can still drive a standard transmission and shift with yer left hand, after drivin' Busby's bleedin' automatic."

"You want us to drop you off?"

"Naw, yer grand, Lad. I can walk. It'll give Mildred time to clear out. She'll be staying out at Maggie's."

I shudder at the mention of my sister, with whom I have not spoken for a good five years. She and Mildred are like the ugly sisters in Cinderella; both are megalomaniacal and never have anything good to say about anybody. Maggie had a boyfriend once. That was some twenty years ago, and she hasn't dated since. Now, she teaches school in Chillicothe.

Dad's black Austin A55 Cambridge is parked at the curb in front of the Mongrain's house. This is the car that I learned to drive on. Although the A55 is almost ten years old, it is in perfect condition. It has no fins; there is no possible illusion that you're piloting a spacecraft like you get driving the Impala. It is indeed smaller than most American cars, but far more comfortable with its elegant dark red leather interior and walnut panel dashboard.

And to put it in Raphie's words, "Glad you don't have to hotwire it with a screwdriver."

We toot the horn and wave, as we pass Dad on 24th Street. The Indian Summer weather is holding and it's promising to be a very good day. When we turn right onto Van Brunt across from where Caspar's filling station used to be, we see Vicky and Wanda pass us in the other direction. They are obviously driving to school. We wave, and they look dumbfounded, since they don't recognize the car.

It's a lazy drive along Brush Creek Boulevard, which swoops you effortlessly from the lower middle class section to the lower upper class section of town. Ah, yes, Brush Creek, a piss-elegant name for a concrete-coated drainage ditch, but nonetheless we are approaching that stylish part of town to the southwest of the Art Institute.

The Country Club Plaza is a freethinking capitalist's replica of Seville, including the Giralda tower, virtually an architect's wet dream. I call it a freethinking capitalist's replica, since the real Giralda tower is part of Seville's cathedral and in Kansas City, it belongs to retail businesses.

But not to be overly critical, this architectural salute to Spain did get us an Avenida de Kansas City in Seville. Luckily, it did not get us Francisco Franco's fascist dictatorship to go with it.

But having said that, we had Joe McCarthy and now we're having enough of a struggle with the military industrial complex and Vietnam. We should have listened to Ike's farewell address. He didn't just play golf, visit Franco and suck up to McCarthy.

With that thought, I have to remember to stop referring to Americans as we. That will take some adjustment. Now, concentrating on traffic coming into the Plaza proper where Brush Creek turns into West 47th Street, I turn left onto Central Street and keep right to drive into the parking lot. "And here we are, Raph."

"You know where this guy is?" Raphie takes his sunglasses off. "Have you been here before?"

"That's an affirmative on the first and a negative on the second count." I roll up the window and look at my partner. "Are you excited?"

"Does the Pope shit in the woods, or is it the bear? Anyway, I feel that after today, you and I will never be the same."

"Is that good or bad?" The only reason I'm asking is that I love to see my guy blush.

And he does blush as he sings. « C’est si bon... ».

The photographer’s shop is definitely up market. Although it is still closed, a well groomed man in his mid-forties is looking through the glass door, checking his watch, waiting for someone.

The moment he sees us, he opens the door and smiles cordially. “You must be Daniel Bourke and Yves-Raphaël Mongrain.” His accent is definitely not Midwestern American. He is possibly from England, but has been in the United States for a long time.

We confirm that we are and enter the shop. Looking around, I wonder if the hundred dollars in my pocket will be enough to cover the pictures. The gentleman doesn’t pay for his cashmere cardigans, woolen trousers more than likely from Woolf Brothers and the rent on this place with peanuts.

He locks the shop door. “Please, gentlemen, come this way.” Behind the counter is a room that resembles a miniature movie set. Lights are everywhere; various cameras are perched on tripods, and the backdrops range from the Eiffel Tower to the Broadway Bridge over Brush Creek, just outside this studio. He pulls down an ivory colored backdrop. “You first, Monsieur Mongrain.”

Raph looks questioningly at me, but does as he is told. The lights are adjusted with motors buzzing; the photographer positions Raph’s face with his left ear visible to the camera, and we hear four rapid-fire sounds from the shutters. “Extremely photogenic, young man. You’re next, Mr. Bourke.”

He putters around and shifts lighting; I get a dark-red backdrop, which is tone-in-tone with my shirt. “C’mon Mr. Bourke, relax and smile a bit. I know that this is for a British passport, but you don’t have to look that cruel.”

Raphie laughs and, of course, I have to smile. The telltale camera sounds go off. Then we get yet another surprise. “Joseph has requested a portrait of you both.” I have to think about who he means. Don’t think that I’ve ever heard of my father referred to as Joseph. And since when does Dad run in artists’ circles? My old man is certainly gaining a texture to his personality, which I have never seen.

“We’re going to shoot this in front of light red brick, which will contrast well with your skin colors.” He pulls down the backdrop. We realize that Dad wants a portrait of us together and not one of each. “All right Monsieur Mongrain, you sit on the high stool, and you stand to his left Mr. Bourke. No, his other left. That’s correct.” He looks at us through the Hasselblad single-lens reflex camera’s aperture. “Closer, closer...” He looks up at us. “Put your arm around his shoulder, Mr. Bourke. And, at least, look like you actually do love him.” He looks through the camera again. “No, Mr. Bourke, you look as if you’ve just been goosed.”

At that Raph and I are seized by fits of laughter, and, yes, we are looking at one another. Then we realize that this man knows that we are a couple, and he’s okay with it. The photographer, being the absolute professional, also uses this uniquely unusual moment to take his pictures.

“If you’ll wait outside, I’ll be about fifteen minutes.” He motions toward the waiting room cum shop, decorated with hundreds of his photos in expensive frames, every one flawless.

Looking over the display, I come across one that must be older than I am, but it is definitely of my father in a tuxedo, standing next to the very young Mongrains in formal evening dress. The background is definitely the lobby of the Art-déco Music Hall at the Municipal Auditorium. “Hey, Raph, look at this, will you?”

He takes hold of me around the waist and glares. “I don’t get it, Dan.” He looks at me and back at the picture. “They must have known each other before we were born.”

“Here we are, gentlemen.” The photographer has returned with our passport photos and the contacts of the portraits. “Oh, I see you need assistance. That was taken in 1947 at a gala performance of the sadly extinct Vine Street jazz scene we used to have here in Kansas City.

“Yes, that is your father, Mr. Bourke. He is standing with that most gifted blues singer from New Orleans, Geneviève Maillet. Some say she was far better than Billy Holiday. I don’t know who the other gentleman is, sorry.” He smiles but then senses our uneasiness. “Is anything wrong?”

“The other gentleman is my late father.” Raphaël’s voice doesn’t want to function properly. “And the blues singer, Geneviève Maillet, is my mother.”

“She’s magnificent. Does she still perform?” He sounds politely hopeful, but distant.

Raph just shakes his head, shocked. I draw him into an embrace. “We’ll get this sorted out.”

The photographer takes the framed picture off the wall, goes behind the counter and wraps it in tissue paper. “Here are your passport photos. That’ll be twenty dollars.” He takes the twenty from me and writes a receipt. “And,” he giggles “here are the contacts of the portraits. And, if I may say so myself, they’ll be spectacular.”

We look at the contacts and have to agree with the photographer. Both of us look as if we haven’t a care in the world. The miniatures in black and white do lift Raph’s spirits to a point, again, where he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“If you would, Monsieur Mongrain, please accept this picture of your parents and Joseph.” He hands Raph the wrapped photo. “Her rendition of the original French Autumn Leaves is legendary around town.”

“Thank you.” Raph takes the present graciously and blushes.

“You do look a lot like her, you know?” The photographer says as he unlocks the door for his day of business. “And please, give my regards to Joseph.”

We return to the car, and there is a man standing next to it. “Is this your car?” His tone is aggressive.

“Uh, yeah, why?” I’m totally stumped as to what he could want.

“Ten thousand, max.” he asserts.

“What?” I step up to unlock the driver’s door on the right. He runs around the car, obviously not having seen the steering wheel.

“I’ll give you ten thousand dollars, cash.”

“Sorry, the car’s not for sale.” I get in and lean over to open Raph’s side and roll down my window.

“Here’s my card. If you change your mind, gimme a call. I always wanted a mini Rolls.”

I laugh, then think about it. Hmm, the car does, sort of, look like a mini Rolls Royce. But I’m sure that Dad won’t part with it. It’s not only his mode of transportation but also his hobby and, last but not least, part of his identity.

We pull out of the parking lot, cross West 47th and drive north on Broadway then east on 43rd to Main. Once we’re driving north on Main, Raph takes my left hand and squeezes. “Do you know what I think?”

“That they were having an affair?” I signal to change lanes. “Do you think we could be brothers?”

“I doubt it; I look too much like Jordan.” He watches Katz Drug Store pass at the corner of Westport Road. “Do we need another bottle of glycerin?”

“We still have half a bottle left. That’ll be enough for the weekend.” I change lanes again to get around a slowpoke with Kansas license plates. “Have you ever heard Maman sing?”

“I’ve heard her sing to herself, but nothing out of the ordinary.” Raph is thinking, wrinkling his brow. “Come to think of it, that piano next to the stairs?”

“Yeah, what about it?” I keep an eye on a group of four hippies at the corner of 39th, who look as if they could come out into traffic. They don’t.

“It’s never been out of tune. Occasionally I’ll punch out a song on it, and it’s always in perfect condition.”

“Do you think she sings when she’s alone?”

“Who knows?” He goes pensively silent. And I concentrate on traffic. At almost ten on a Friday morning, there are quite a lot of people getting a head start on their weekend shopping before the afternoon and evening rush. Traffic flowing toward the downtown department stores is picking up.

We find a metered parking space on Baltimore just a couple of blocks from the consulate. I’m experiencing butterflies in my stomach. The two quarters give us two hours. In just 120 minutes and a half a dollar later, things will look different. Much different.

“Would you put the picture in the trunk?” Raph hands me the tissue-wrapped package.

“Sure.” I open what Dad calls the boot, what I call the trunk. My mind is starting to speed. I have to inhale deeply and slowly. “Everything alright, Raph.”

Raphie looks concerned. “I’m fine. But you look like you might faint.” He closes the trunk.

I lead the way into the brick office building and go directly for the elevators. I have to take another deep breath. Raph takes me by the arm. I turn to tell him that I’m fine and discover that it isn’t my guy. Another breath. “Uh, hello, Richard. Thought you were Raph.”

“Good morning, Raphaël. Hullo, Daniel.” Richard’s educated accent is a dead giveaway that he isn’t your ordinary office clerk.

“We’re here to see Mr. Ashton.” I’m regaining my composure, talking to a friendly face.

“Hmm, I know.” He smiles with a hint of humorous intrigue.

“What’s Mr. Ashton like?” My attempt at small talk, while waiting for the elevator, goes badly wrong.

Grinning, Raph punches me in the ribs and points to Richard’s nametag.

“I thought your surname is Washburn.”

“That’s my stage name. As a member of Her Majesty’s Foreign Service, I’m not officially permitted to appear on stage.” He laughs. “Along with a lot of other things that I’m not supposed to do.”

The elevator door opens and Richard herds us in ahead of two other people. The doors close and engulf us into silence aside from Muzak and a nervous cough. The doors open and he herds us out towards the massive oak doors with the ever-present lion and unicorn. “After you.” We enter the stately office.

“Dan, your father has already signed for you and tentatively for Yves-Raphaël, pending your mother’s acquiescence. Now, you need the countersignatures of two people who have known you for more than five years, and who can vouch for your character.” He pauses and smiles. “Are you both always this somber?”

“I can’t think of anybody.” I admit.

“Well you and Raph have known each other far longer than five years. So, you sign for each other, and I’ll sign for both of you. It hasn’t been exactly five years, but I don’t think I’m perjuring myself for a matter of months, give or take.”

We give him the photos, sign the backs, and sign the forms. Countersign the forms and pictures. Everything is very official. We pay ten dollars each for the passports. And then comes the moment of truth.

“Since Dan is British by birth, he doesn’t get to. But you, Yves-Raphaël, god what a beautiful name, get to swear an oath. And Dan and I get to witness this solemn event. So, place your left hand on the Bible. No, that’s the guest book. Here you go. And raise your right hand and repeat after me:

”I, Yves-Raphaël Mongrain, swear by almighty god that, on becoming a British subject, I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, Her Heirs and Successors according to law.”

“And now you’re all set. Not to change the subject, no pun intended, but have you had lunch?

“No.” Raphie verbalizes and I shake my head. Richard says that he is leaving and bids his coworkers a good weekend and closes the oak door behind us.

“Okay, then, it’s my treat, if you give me a lift down to the theatre. Joseph said that you’d have the car today.” He herds us into the elevator.

“Sure, where do you want to go?”

“Does the Westport Room sound all right?” The elevator doors open onto the lobby, and he gives a salute to the doorman in passing.

‘Sure thing, as long as you’re paying.’ I think to myself but say out loud: “Fine with you, Raph?” Now, we are back out on the street. The whole ordeal only lasted less than half an hour.

“Yeah, count me in.” He seems distant.

“You okay, Raph?” Richard gives him a short, amiable, one-arm hug.

“I’m still just a little stunned. I walk into that building, the same ol’ Raph Mongrain, I always was and come back out a subject of Her Majesty the Queen. I’m a fucking foreigner.” He laughs.

“That does make three of us, you know?” Richard giggles. “Get used to it.”

We turn the corner and Richard sees the car, not knowing it’s ours. “Would you look at that. It’s an old Austin A55, in perfect condition.”

Raph decides to tease. “Wanna go for a joy ride?”

“Don’t be daft. We’d stick out like a bloody sore thumb. It has to be the only one within miles.” He walks over and runs his fingers across the shiny black finish.

I unlock the driver’s door next to the curb and watch Richard’s face light up. “You have to be joking. We’re going to the Union Station in this? And we don’t have a camera.” He stoops to look inside. “And the steering column is even on the proper side. This is fab!”

I open the back door for Richard and climb in myself to open the passenger door for Raph. He has to wait for traffic to pass then gets in. I roll down the window and glare at the parking meter. Whoever gets the parking space now will have more than an hour’s free parking. The world has changed for Raph and me in less time than it takes to spend a quarter.

Signaling, I start to pull from the curb, when a policeman steps in front of the car, making us stop. He goes to the passenger’s side and signals for Raph to roll the window down. “I’d like to see your driver’s license, Boy.”

Raphaël smiles politely. “Don’t have one, Officer.”

“You are operating a motor vehicle on a public street without a driver’s license?” He puts his right hand on his handgun.

“No, I am not.” Raphie remains polite.

“You callin’ me a liar, Boy?”

Richard gets out of the back seat holding up his black diplomatic passport. “Both of these gentlemen are subjects of Her Britannic Majesty and, as such, are accompanying me on official business. And I am on Her Majesty’s Foreign Service with diplomatic immunity.

“However, if you would take the time to look properly, Sir, I think you will find the steering wheel to be on the right-hand side of this car, behind which is seated a licensed driver. You have just addressed the passenger, who, I do believe, even in this state, does not require any particular permission.”

He looks through the open window on the passenger’s side, careful not to get too close to Raph. “Uh, huh, okay, you can go.”

“Thank you.” Richard’s teeth are clenched. He gets back in and sighs as we pull from the curb. “Aren’t you glad to be Brits? At least our policemen are polite.” We laugh as it slowly sinks in: We no longer belong here.