The Junk Drawer of Dr Fell
The Junk Drawer of Dr. Fell
by Syd McGinley
It’s raining too hard for yard work or a run, and Dave’s at work. I’m back from tutoring at the county jail’s pre-release center. I’ve finally faced the fact that I am a teacher through and through. I love the damn job. It leaves me restless, though, and a morning behind locked doors isn’t a good prelude to a rainy afternoon. Ghia’s managing to sleep her day away, but I’m full of energy.
“Be productive, Fell.”
I look around for a task. The trouble with having a boy for chores and being a tidy guy in the first place is that there’s very little that needs doing. All my current projects are outdoors.
“Desk drawers,” I decide. I do have a designated junk drawer where I shove things I can’t decide how to file. Having an ‘M’ for ‘miscellaneous’ bothers me more than having a junk drawer -- it’s admitting I can’t classify them -- but I also refuse to create a file category for just one item. Dave, of course, thinks this is hilarious.
Perhaps some items in the drawer will have multiplied and I can create category files for them. I pull it open hopefully. Aw hell, Dave’s been shoving all his to-do lists and Post-Its and junk in there, too.
I write, “punish Dave for junk drawer abuse” on an index card and pin it to my bulletin board.
I start picking through it and doing a rough sort into piles of Dave’s crap and my stuff.
How he thinks we’ll use dog food coupons when they’re buried here, and this is a damn lug nut and, fuck, part of a wiper blade from his Karman. I add “severely” to the index card reminder. I put a stack of winning E-Bay car part bids aside, and sigh. At least he doesn’t hide receipts from me like he claims his mom does from his dad.
WTF? A baby shower invitation? Okay, so I hid that in here, but who sends guys shower invites anyway, let alone me and Dave? Oh, right. Laurie and Simon’s friends. I’ve repressed the memory until now. I regret urging Simon to come out at work now. He’s acquired this whole circle of nice suburban professional gay friends in addition to the group. Cliff and Doug do stuff like adopt babies from abroad and go on family vacations -- and invite me to showers. I shudder. I was so busted on that since Laurie called Dave so they could shop together for some stroller that cost more than Dave’s car. Dave guilted me into going to the shower, and he’s still not been forgiven for it turning out to be the “welcome Anthony Michael Clifford Douglas Hansen-Jones” picnic and shower combined. I close my eyes against the memory of guest-of-honor baby spitup on my bike jacket.
Twink called me a sour apple that day, but he did take the ankle-biter away and rescue me. After taking my photo. And it was he who dumped the brat on me in the first place. At least Ben was as freaked as me once he saw his boy cooing away and getting all broody.
Back to the drawer, John.
My Harley maintenance for beginners book that I’ve hidden from Dave. Shit, I bet he’s seen it if he’s been dumping his crud in here.
Man, I’m as married as Cliff and Doug. Baby showers, dog food coupons, fooling myself that I’m hiding my flaws…
I make a cracking noise to myself. “Man, John, you are whipped.”
A stray punishment book -- that shouldn’t be here, I have a category for them. Oh -- it’s Jamie’s. He’s not in the group, that’s why it’s not filed with the others. I shove it back in the drawer. His memory can still twist my gut even after all else that’s happened.
The rain must be getting to me. I get back to work.
A cock ring from the set Ben sent out to torment twink and Colby, a fishing weight from the day I adorned Tommy by the creek, a snapshot of Rory and Greg during Rory’s branding, a postcard from Folsom Street, a receipt for a case of lube, Mike’s handwritten aftercare instructions for tongue piercings… Huh. Well, all right, so I’m not that married…
I look at my bulletin board and grin. I know where that whip is going to crack next.
Syd McGinley, The Junk Drawer of Dr Fell
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