Page 5 of The Christmas Keeper

“I don’t disagree. That’s my car, the old Chevy Sprint.” He pointed to a beater red car covered with snow. I pulled up beside it, and we both braved the elements to get the windows cleared. “I’ll follow you.”

I nodded, unsure of what to say. I climbed back into my Rogue, my head all over the place, and eased slowly out of the slippery parking area and back onto the road. Making the usually forty-five-minute trip home grew into over an hour and a half due to conditions. Which was fine. The more time I spent distanced from Kenan and those damn enchanting eyes of his, the more time Practical Brann had to regain control. I liked Practical Brann. He was safe. He kept himself out of harm’s way emotionally, happy with his little fortress of companionlessness,and never did outlandish things for pretty boys after the catastrophe that had been Paulie. Or hadn’t until about an hour ago. But now that I had time to breathe and distance between myself and he of the soulful eyes and magical voice, I could state with confidence that my actions had been purely humanitarian.

“It’s the season to give,” I told myself as we crept along the back roads that led to Whiteham, most having been recently plowed and cindered as school was still in session. And really, what was a few inches to rural folks in this neck of the woods? I’m just giving a man who needs a warm bed a place to lay his head. Santa would be proud. Maybe I’d get a new bike or one of the vibrating butt plugs that I’d been eyeballing for months.

My right hand left the wheel to fiddle with the radio, finding a country station with ease. Up here in the boonies country and western was big. Classic rock fans like me had one station to listen to, all the others were hillbilly tunes. Every few miles, I would check the rearview and smile to see Kenan still following at a sedate speed. Then I would scowl at myself in the mirror, rip my eyes from the Chevy behind me, and stare straight ahead with a vengeance.

An old Garth Brooks song started, the one about the rodeo, and I found myself wondering if Kenan sang about bulls and shiny spurs. Maybe he was less cowboy songs and more broken hearts songs, or maybe he was all about girls in jeans and pickup trucks. Maybe he didn’t care about girls at all. Maybe he liked men who came home smelling of stale beer and—

“Whoa, just whoa.” I jammed my finger into the scan button hard. And found more country. Then more country. And then even more country. “Where the hell is AC/DC when you need them?!” I shouted as I pawed around in the glove box for my CDs, nearly taking out a mailbox as I drifted off the road. Correcting quickly, I opened the cracked case, shoved that disc in, and cranked the volume up to ‘make my ears bleed’ levels.Only when my car was vibrating with screaming guitars and lead singers did I breathe properly. Obviously, my four-year stint of celibacy was wreaking havoc with my senses. That was logical. I was a young man, not even thirty yet, and I had needs. Generally, those needs were happy with Tonya Thumb and her four sisters but every now and again, it stood to reason, that a good-looking guy who spoke with velveteen inflections that sang of sweet tea, stately plantations, and waves of Spanish moss on aged oaks would bring up some yearnings.

“Yep, yearnings were common,” I assured myself, hands on the wheel, my sight darting up to check on Kenan as we neared the bustling metropolis of Whiteham, population ten thousand forty if you counted all the cows. “Everyone has yearnings. Even your mother.” Oh. Oh no. That was…yuck. I came back to reality hard just as we sailed through one of two red lights on Main Street. Yep, good. I just had to keep thinking of my mother and father getting frisky and all stirrings in the genital region withered like last fall’s pumpkins left on the vine.

The hamlet of Whiteham had been busy whilst I was in Canada. Every street light now held its customary tinsel tree decoration, and every store had blinking lights with festive displays in the windows. Even the hardware store, Al’s Hardware, on the corner had joined in and had a fat cardboard Santa waving a jigsaw in their front window. Then there was the alehouse, sitting there like an unwanted case of genital herpes between the waving Santa and some sort of new-age white birch tree with pink lights and fairies extravaganza. Spring Muse was a new shop, just opened in the spring, and was packed full of Stevie Nicks inspired clothing as well as scented oils, beaded things, and wispy fae hats with long frilly dangles. The owner was an older woman, Beatrice, who was into Wicca and brewing ‘potions’ that she claimed were healing. Given how old Bea was, I had wondered if she was making embalming fluid.

“That’s not nice. It’s Christmas. Stop being a Scrooge,” I reminded myself as I pulled into a parking slot in front of the pub. Kenan eased in behind me. The street was empty for the most part. It was after five p.m., which was when the sidewalks were rolled up. I kid. Mostly. Things did get quiet here, though, in the evenings aside from Friday and Saturday nights. The weather didn’t help either. I loathed the idea of having to get out and face yet another wall of snow and wind, but get out I did, as did Kenan.

“Is this your bar?” he asked, his voice muffled by his scarf, his hands filled with a guitar case and two fat duffel bags.

“It is. Prepare to be impressed,” I jokingly replied as I unlocked the front door and threw it open. I waved in Kenan, hurried in behind him, and pushed the door shut. I breathed in deeply, the smell of old wood and hops filling me with ease. I did love this old gal even if she was a little on the crusty side. I turned on the lights and glanced to the left at my guest. It was beyond strange to see this stranger standing here inspecting my little bar, yet here he was. “Impressed yet?”

“It’s homey,” he answered stiffly.

Yeah, it was that. I liked to think of the small space as eclectic pub chic. The walls were dark wood with some funky metal ale signs from local flea markets, the floor tiled, and the tables few and far between, wedged in where I could fit them around the jukebox. The bar, now that was a thing of beauty. Rich dark wood, famous brewery taps on display, stools that had held a lot of asses, and a register that I’d found online from the ?50s. That was mostly for show. I had a new point-of-sale system register tucked behind a stuffed flounder that held my business cards in its tiny fishy mouth.

A chalkboard on the wall by the door announced the beer of the week, which would be discounted so customers would venture out of their beer comfort zones. Mugs and glasses linedthe bar and the shelves behind it and stacks of bowls for nuts and pretzels sat tidily beside a metal sign stating that the best beer was the one in your hand.

Eclectic pub chic to the nth.

“You want a glass of something before we head up?” I asked, waving at the taps with domestic and imported ales. “I just got a new Belgium dark that’s strong but fruity.”

“No, no, thank you. I’m in NA and while booze isn’t my addiction of choice, it’s best if I avoid alcohol.” He said it calmly as if it were a simple fact of his life. I nearly fell over. “It’s okay, honestly.”

“No, no, it is not! Oh shit, I didn’t know…we can do something else,” I rambled, mortified, that I’d brought this man who was battling an addiction into a damn pub. What the fuck was wrong with me?! “We can—”

“Brann,” he interjected in the slow drawl of his. My mouth snapped shut. “It’s fine. I’m in good shape. You didn’t know. I’ve been in bars since I got out of rehab, several in fact, and not once have I slipped. Two years clean.” He beamed.

“That’s…that is awesome. Congrats, man, seriously.”

“I’d love a ginger ale, though. Oh wow, look at her,” he whispered as if Sophia Loren had just entered the room. Hey, I’m gay, not blind. Sophia was a knockout. He placed his guitar case on the floor and floated over to the jukebox, his smile growing wider the closer he got to it. “This is gorgeous.”

He placed a hand on the bowed glass and bent over to read the title cards, most filled out by me so nearly unreadable. “What a beauty.”

“Yeah, she’s my baby. I’ve spent more money on her than I did on my house, I think.” He chuckled as he perused the choices of songs. I perused his ass. It was small and tight. Ugh. Nope, nope, nope. I rushed behind the bar where I felt safe with all that woodseparating me from temptation and filled two glasses with ice, then shot some ginger ale atop the cubes.

“Do you mind if I play something?” he called, and I shook my head as I fished around in the small fridge where I kept sliced lemons and limes. I found the lemon container, but they were kind of dried out. They had been sitting for a week, so I chucked them, sliced a fresh one, and then placed both glasses on coasters with the alehouse name on them.

“Your soda is ready,” I said and got a nod. Curls bounced. My dick twitched. I was tempted to dip my cock into the mug cooler, but the board of health might frown upon that, so I shoved at my crotch with the heel of my hand as Kenan fed quarters into the old gal. I loved that coins had to be used. I was not about to hook her up to the internet even if some people, most my age, bitched about having to use coins. Tough shit. Find some change or hum to yourself. Making her digital would ruin her. Some things were meant to be left the hell alone. New was not always better.

Hmm, maybe Iwasa little curmudgeonly after all. Mom always said I had the soul of a seventy-year-old locked into the body of a twenty-something. I could live with that.

I had a tin of quarters, painted with red nail polish, that I used to feed the jukebox when it sat silent too long. People seemed to only play it if someone had played it first, and at the end of the week, I’d collect the change. The red ones went back in the tin and the rest went into the register as profit. It wasn’t a lot of profit, trust me, but it made me feel as if the thousands I’d sunk into her would be paid off. Some decade.

“Crazy” by Patsy Cline floated out of the speakers hidden in the corners. Kenan made his way to the bar, climbed up onto a stool, and took a sip of his soda.

“This is good,” he said. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing.”

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