Chapter 33
Fair season began that year on the first Monday in May.
Aberlour set up his booth and amused himself by people watching.
He was in a prime location on the fair grounds at the corner near the deep-fried Oreos and a vomit-inducing ride that kids seemed to love.
He didn’t even bother inciting people to try his game. He just—enjoyed the scenery.
Specifically, he liked to watch the man running the booth directly across from him.
He was young and reminded him of Carlos.
An incredibly campy version of Carlos. Nonetheless, the resemblance was remarkable.
His short stature, dazzling smile and dark, Hispanic features were attractive in the same way Abe’s friend—brother—had been.
His voice was vibrant and boisterous. Aberlour couldn’t help that his gaze tended to stray frequently to his neighbor’s stall when his own was empty.
Somehow, his neighbour must have sensed his interest, because one day, out of the blue, his neighbor made his way over to Aberlour’s booth.
He held a glittery pink cane that he lightly tapped on the ground in front of him.
Aberlour had seen him do it before. He’d assumed the man must be blind—and fashionable.
“Bartholomew Dawson the Third, but please call me Bart,” he said, extending his hand. His nails were painted a bright, carnation pink that matched his cane.
“Aberlour,” he’d answered, shaking the man’s hand.
“Like the scotch?” he’d asked, and Aberlour liked him instantly.
“Exactly,” he answered.
Bart wrinkled his nose in disgust and Aberlour smiled.
“I hate scotch, but Aberlour is the only one I’ll tolerate. My boyfriend’s really into it,” Bart remarked with friendly smile.
Abe wasn’t shocked to hear that Bart had a boyfriend. It was quite the opposite. But he was taken aback by how candid he was about it. Aberlour had about 10 years on Bart though, so he wasn’t exactly up on social trends these days.
“What’s your poison?” Abe asked, trying to be friendly, but he felt a bit rusty when making small talk. He wished, for an instant—a thought that quickly passed—that Oli was there to speak for him.
“Vodka sodas, mainly,” he replied with a graceful shrug and a carefree smile that had never seen war.
“Never tried one of those,” Aberlour confessed.
“Not to state the obvious, but I doubt we have much in common.” Bart laughed buoyantly.
Bart might have a point.
“What’s with the cane?” Aberlour asked. It was definitely not a run-of-the-mill cane. Long and thin like most of the ones that Aberlour had seen before, but this one was fluorescent pink and covered in glitter.
“Eyes are fucked. Legally blind and everything,” Bart said with a shrug, his smile never dimming.
“Is glitter the standard issue?” Aberlour teased.
“I wish! Michael had to bedazzle this one by hand,” Bart said.
“Michael?”
“My fiancé.”
Fiancé. That took him by surprise. But why? Who the fuck knew, but that word hit him hard.
“Dedicated man,” Aberlour praised warmly, although he had yet to fully process the implications of what he’d just learned about Bart and Michael.
Bart chuckled and changed the subject.
“Balloons, right?”
“Yeah. Seven darts, eight balloons for a win.”
“So, it’s a hustle.”
“No,” Aberlour denied firmly.
“Has anyone popped eight balloons in seven darts?” Bart sounded skeptical.
“Sure.”
“Anyone but you, I mean,” he said with an exaggerated eyeroll that reminded Aberlour of Oliver.
“No,” he grudgingly conceded.
Bart smirked knowingly and leaned on his sparkly cane.
Aberlour watched him intently, strangely in awe of his courage to be so open and forthright.
“How’d you know?” Abe asked. Bart’s booth wasn’t traditional at all. The players had to complete the lyrics of a song to win anything. Aberlour mostly ignored it.
“About the balloons?” Bart asked, like it was a stupid question. “They might not pop eight, but I can still hear all the pops.”
“Sorry,” Abe said.
“Fuck you,” Bart replied with a warm chuckle that reminded him of Oli. “I just mean that’s how I knew about your booth.”
Aberlour just snorted, not knowing what to say.
“How’d you end up here?” Bart asked. He’d tipped his head back like he was looking up at the sky while still leaning on his cane.
“Needed a job after I retired.”
“Retired?”
“Marines.”
“Did you shoot anyone?” It was an obvious question. The one everyone always asked.
“Many times over,” Aberlour answered without caring how Bart might react to that admission.
“Did you lose anyone?” So easy. He asked it like it was nothing. Nothing at all.
“Too many,” Abe replied just as easily. What else was there to say?
“My brother was in the Navy,” Bart said, casually. But his voice was high pitched.
Aberlour thought he sounded stressed.
“Retired?”
“Dead.”
There was silence then. Because just maybe, they had a whole helluva lot more in common than Bart might think.
“I don’t know half of the songs you’ve been playing in your booth,” Aberlour said, intentionally steering the conversation back into safer territory.
“Pop music’s not your thing?”
“No.”
“What do you listen to?” he asked curiously.
“French songs. Old songs. Brel and Piaf, you know?” Aberlour asked, fully expecting Bart to shake his head in dismissal.
“Sure, Edith Piaf is an icon. Not very popular around these parts. I’d get called a hustler if I included her,” he said, his eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement.
“She’s a—she’s really popular in the queer community,” he added, and even Aberlour—as daft and dumb as he was—could tell Bart was offering him an opportunity to open up.
“Where do you know her from?” he asked innocently.
“My mother was French,” he replied, with a shrug that was lost on Bart.
“Hmm,” he replied, and although he still reminded Abe of Carlos, there was something about him. Something unbridled and emotionally dangerous that reminded him of Oliver as well.
“I love Brel, too. I cried my eyes out to Ne me quitte pas, a few too many times,” Bart confessed with a rueful smile.
“Is that how you broke them?” Abe replied, the teasing question out of his mouth before he could think better of it.
Bart gave a loud boisterous laugh, and just like that, he reminded Aberlour of better, happier days.