Page 24 of The Falcon and the Foe

“I’ll get you a medal. Help me get the rest of the tent bags from the storage room.”

The Bea Arthur center was shaped in a rectangle with an open garden area in the middle. Posters from previous community theater productions hung on the walls.

“And did you notice my uniform?” I puffed out my chest, but he was walking ahead and didn’t turn around.

“That it’s ironed? Yes.”

“An improvement from last week.”

“Do you want a congratulations for doing the bare minimum and looking nice?”

Did that count as a compliment? And why did it make me blush?

We walked two lengths of the rectangular building to reach the closet, filled with boxes of Falcons paraphernalia: uniforms, manuals, outdoorsy supplies. I was peeking behind the curtain.

Russ reached to the top shelf to pull down tents. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Spot him? Admire the way his ass stood out?

He pulled down one tent, then another. I held out my arms, and he lay them across. It was the first documented example of Russ Ettinger utilizing teamwork to make the dream work. He couldn’t lead this troop by himself as much as he wanted to.

“I don’t know why they shove these tents all the way in the back.” Russ grunted as he reached for the final two. It was a manly sound that found its way down to my crotch.

“Did Past Russ do that?”

“Past Russ did not. Past Russ arranged the tents neatly on the middle shelf to avoid situations such as these.” He swatted his hand, but they only brushed against the fabric. He looked around for a footstool. No dice. “The staff rearranged this closet after the spring musical.”

Colorful wigs and props overflowed from lower shelves. They were lightweight and easily could’ve sat on the top shelf. This felt like a targeted attack against the Falcons.

“Well, that was dumb of them.”

“Short-sighted. Very short-sighted.”

“Aha!” I yanked a broom shoved in the corner of the closet from an old production of Wizard of Oz. I needled it past Russ to loop through the strap of one of the tents. It slid down the broom. An amused grin took over the bottom half of his face, revealing—gasp—two dimples! Who knew signs of life could exist in such a hostile environment?

“Good thinking.” He tried to take the broom from me to gather up the final tent.

Tried.

“I got it. Watch and learn.” The broom bobbed around the strap, causing my heart to beat louder in my chest.

“I’ll take it. I’m taller.”

“By an inch.”

“Every inch matters,” he said, reaching again. This man was a control freak to his core.

“Hedwig, you can take your angry inch and chill out.” Just as I started to question whether I should hand over the broom, the wooden end made contact with the strap. The tent made a very satisfying whoosh sound as it slid down to us. “See, I told you I got it.”

He confirmed this with a begrudging nod of the head.

“And since we’re here, we can move all this theater stuff to the top shelf.” I had this unnerving urge to impress him.

“Yeah. That makes sense.”

That was as much of a compliment as I would ever receive from Russ Ettinger. We shifted the old props to the top shelf, and it inspired me to hum and then singSomewhere Over the Rainbow, something I was programmed to do as a homosexual. I impersonated Judy Garland’s mid-Atlantic accent, regally stretching out my vowels. Russ responded with another reluctant half-smile tugging up his face and exposing one of his squinty dimples. His grins lit up this musty closet, like fireworks creating a glow around those looking up at them.

“I don’t mean to sound like a construction worker hitting on an unsuspecting woman, but you should smile more.”

He seemed confused. “I smile plenty. Just not around you.” There it was, another fireworks face.

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