Page 18 of Bringing Home the Bacon
“Who?” Bacon’s voice lifts in a tone I haven’t heard from him before. He takes our empty plates to the sink.
I abandon my drink and slide off the stool, clutching the bedsheet to my body.” Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop. This mail here is addressed to Harold Hot Man. Oh. And it’s from Harold Hot Man too. Who the heck is Harold Hot Man?”
“Uh, me.” He places a champagne glass down in front of me. “And the man who sired me.”
“You mean your father?” I ask.
“Nope.” He aggressively scrubs our plates. “He doesn’t get that title. ‘The man who sired me will do.’”
There is obviously a story there. Being brand new to this man’s life and having spent the earlier part of the day lying to him, I don’t feel like I have the right to pry further into what is clearly a sensitive subject. But I do need to get clarity on one thing.
“Your real name is Harold Hot Man?!”
“Sort of. You’re saying it wrong, though. It’s Hotman.”
“That’s what I said. Hot Man.”
He chuckles and settles our plates on a dishrack. “It’s one word. Think Dustin Hoffman. You wouldn’t call him Dustin Hoff Man, would you? He’s Dustin Hoffman. And yes, I am Harold Hotman.”
“And people call you a pork product instead.”
“They do indeed.”
I shake my head in wonder. “What a world.” I turn and finally take in his living space. My eyes nearly bug out of my head at the epic bookcase spanning his entire far wall. “Excuse my language Mr. Hotman, but what the fuck is that?” I hoist the bedsheet around me higher and cross the room to get a better look.
“What? My bookcase?”
“Yeah, your bookcase! If you can call it that! What you have here is a veritable library! Oh my gosh, dude! Eclectic much?”
Bacon joins me and hands me my abandoned mimosa. “You think?”
“Uh, yeah!” I say with a heavy dose of “duh” in my tone. “On this shelf alone you have Nietzsche, Proust, Karin Slaughter, and Danielle Steel.”
He shrugs. “I like variety. I assume you’re a big reader too?”
“What makes you say that?” I take the glass from him and swiftly scan the shelves.
“Well, you’re physically drooling right now…”
I swipe at my chin with the bedsheet.
“Also, it’s sort of a prerequisite for your work, right?”
Right. I told him I was in publishing.
That wasn’t so much a lie, but a wish. A dream, really. One I hadn’t vocalized in so long. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a little kid. As soon as I learned to read and form my own words on the page, I filled notebook after notebook with my stories. I shared them with anyone who would listen.
But then my parents died, and I just…stopped.
Years later, I went to college as an English major, thinking I could somehow ease my way into a writing career after graduation, but I could never find the same creative flow I’d found as a child. The words just wouldn’t come. So I decided to work with children instead. To surround myself with that joy and wonder I once had.
“Let’s toast!” I lift my mimosa, trying to get the subject off me. “To Harold ‘Bacon’ Hotman, a man who cooks and reads.”
“That seems a low bar if you ask me. Cooking and reading? Those should be considered basic life functions. Certainly not worthy of a toast.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, sir. You haven’t seen the crop of men women deal with in the dating pool. But, point taken.” I pause and come up with a better toast. “To Harold ‘Bacon’ Hotman. Congratulations on making the top ten, Chef.”
We finally clink our glasses together and take a sip.
