Blazing Addles

Denny moved even more laboriously getting out of the car than he had that morning and a concerning, dark stain had seeped through on one side of the rear of his trousers. The man was seventy-three years old, Alan reminded himself. Bringing him to work for Show & Tell barely a day out of surgery might not have been the most considerate thing he had ever done.

Alan extended an elbow for Denny to take, and arm-in-arm they began a sedate march up the peony lined flagstone aisle to the threshold.

Using his own key, Alan opened the door. The security system buzzed its warning tone, and Alan disarmed it with a few keystrokes. He led Denny to the overstuffed sofa, where Denny collapsed, his good side on the leather, with a heavy sigh.

"Don't get too comfortable," Alan cautioned. "You're due for a wound cleansing and dressing change. Not that I wish to incommode you, but I am disinclined to attempt it in here. I fear you might be misperceived as wounded prey." He gestured around the living room walls where from all sides, various tusked, toothed and antlered game animals—as well as a splendid Chinook, easily over four feet in length—stared down at them with reproving glass eyes.

"Just five minutes," Denny muttered. He nestled his head against a padded leather arm and closed his lids.

Something in the way the late afternoon sunlight made him appear a lot older than seventy-three. Or maybe Alan had simply forgotten how old seventy-three really was.

Denny made it easy to forget a lot of things.

Kneeling on the carpet, Alan began with Denny's shoes. He chatted as he removed first one, then the other, then the socks. "Denny, I know that you had your heart set on a cozy victory dinner for four tonight with a selection of rare prime rib and even rarer prime women, but I'm afraid I am going to have to beg off. I did not sleep at all well in that hospital recliner, and I find myself now utterly exhausted. Could we possibly postpone the celebration and eat here tonight? I could do something easy like, say, whip up some noodles. That is one of my specialties." He slipped Denny's top arm out of his jacket and removed both cufflinks, setting them carefully atop the coffee table.

Denny jerked his head around. "Drop it. I know what you're doing! You don't have to coddle me! Don't you think I know my own condition? I live with; I see it better than you. I just don't want to talk about it. Doesn't change a damn thing. So why not spend the time talking about something more fun? Like...shooting things. Or sex."

"Oh, I think you're plenty fun. But if you insist, let it be noodles, then." Alan undid Denny's tie and laid it aside. "What kind do you prefer? Long or short? Wiry or plump? Straight, or the kind that curves up just a little bit? Do you like them extra firm or just soft enough to give way at the first suggestion of teeth? I'm thinking slathered in a rich, creamy, white sauce served with one of those extra large spoons so you can swirl and twirl them around as they slide and slither over your tongue. What about you?"

Alan unfastened Denny's suspenders, and slipped his hands below the waistband to gently tug out the overpriced Italian shirt.

"You're doing that on purpose," Denny grumbled.

"Naturally. My friend has too much on his mind—"

"Don't hear that much," Denny mumbled into the upholstery.

" –and I'm trying to make him laugh instead of dwelling on his woes. My comedic repertoire is somewhat limited. Unless disrobed, of course, but I had dismissed that set of options as inappropriate between us.

"Or was I premature? Not a problem I encounter frequently, but these circumstances are extraordinary, and one must always be on guard. Never get a second chance for a first impression and all that."

Denny chuckled.

"Ah! See there! Laughter. It worked. And not even at the cost of my modesty." Alan started on Denny's shirt buttons from the bottom up, while Denny worked from the top ones down. Eventually they would meet in the middle.

"Thank you, Alan," Denny said quietly.

"It's no trouble. But we are going to have to get you up for the rest. And no, that sexual entendre was wholly unintended—a realization that likely surprises me as much as it does you."

"That's not what I mean. I mean for that case today. I don't know what's happening to my mind at times any more than the rest of you, but I need to be able to trust it when I can. If I can't trust myself to do, to live, then what's left? Nothing. I might as well just...shoot myself." Denny pointed an index finger gun toward his temple, apparently oblivious to the obvious.

Alan raised his eyebrows, but decided to let it pass. It was so Denny, it could even be read as a sign of recovery.

"Paul and Shirley would be happy to let me lie here and rot. They think that because I'm not the old Denny Crane, that this one's no good for anything but a paperweight. And I almost believed it.

"Do you have any idea what it's like to doubt yourself?"

Alan worked the top arm free of the shirt. "Is my response intended to be confined to a professional sphere? If not, I will have to extract from you an assurance that any answer I might give would be privileged. I have worked too hard to establish a reputation as sententious solipsist to have it dismantled by a casual slip."

"I doubted myself this morning," Denny said. "But when you fall off a horse, you're supposed to mount right back on again. Shirley wasn't going to let me...mount. But you..." His words trailed off.

"It's no trouble," Alan repeated. He pushed to his feet and extended a hand. "But we are going to have to get you up."

Denny bent his knees and tried to slide his feet off the edge. A sharp grunt slipped out, and he stopped where he lay. "I don't know if I can."

"Would you like a pill?"

"I don't want a damned pill. I just want the pain to go away."

Alan wriggled the rest of Denny's shirt and jacket off. "Stay there. I'm going to go run a bath. The hot water is good for the aches and pains that come from lying too long on medical tables. This I know for a fact."

"That doctor said that I'm not supposed to soak it underwater."

"A shallow bath: one buttock in and one buttock out. Shallow is yet another area of my expertise. I'll be careful; I always am when it's a fellow's first time. That's why they call me Easy Alan."

Alan reconsidered. "Well, it isn't the main reason, but amongst all the explanations given, it's the one my mother found most palatable, so I use it when in her social circles.

"Besides, I've been curious about your master bath. I never did get to see it during the time I was staying here, but a mondaine of our mutual acquaintance once described it as an E-ticket ride."

Denny grunted. "More likely, she meant Denny Crane was."

"No. As I recall, she said that you were Disneyland."

"As it should be."

Alan's mouth twitched into a smile. "I'm going to go run the tub. Wait there, Mickey." He tossed his own jacket over a chair and headed toward the dining room and bar.

"I thought you were going to my bathroom."

"I thought I'd fix us some scotch to pass the time."

"There's scotch in the bathroom," Denny said.

"Glasses?"

"Above the mini-fridge."

Alan peered at him.

"Well, who the hell wants warms champagne with their bath?"

Alan rolled up his cuffs and headed for the master suite.


***

In the other room, water ran, and Denny had almost drifted off, but in a minute, the plangent sounds of Barry White oozed into the air waves, catching his attention with a promise to love him just a little more.

Alan called from the bedroom doorway. "Denny, how do I turn of the disco ball?" Flashes of light and color kaleidoscoped behind him.

"You can't. It's wired into the sauna jets. You'd have to turn them off. Or you could shoot it down. I left that .22 against the wall over by Schmidt Ho."

Alan glanced between the rifle, the deflated doll in a Shirley's suit, the bathroom ceiling with the turning lights and mirrors, then back to Denny. Oddly, it all seemed to make sense...albeit in a cuckoo's nest sort of way.

"Since mirror balls have been out of season since 1978, I suppose we'd best leave it be. What the hell; this could be fun. Old memories and all that. I did have a bit of a thing for Robin Gibb—so delightfully androgynous. In my tentative years, he made me always made feel like I wouldn't really have to choose.

"Come on." Alan returned to the couch and slipped an arm around Denny's waist. "Put your arm around my neck. Up we go." Alan hauled, and with a grunt and grimace, Denny was back on his feet.

"Now the rest of it. Drop 'em mister. I don't have all day." Alan tugged at his waistband, and the slacks and boxers slid off onto the carpet.

With a little help, Denny stepped out of them. Together, they limped into the bathroom.

"You moved a lot better when Shirley was watching. Perhaps we should keep her around. Continually feeling obliged to pace yourself against a rival self thirty years past who you believe she still sees should present an inspirational challenge."

"I do everything better when Shirley's watching." Denny loosened up a little with each step. "Or when her cousin's watching me with Shirley. That girl was hot. I wonder where she is now."

"Probably pining her heart out for what she never had."

"Mm-uh. She had me. Shirley told me she expected me to be considerate of her family. Who am I to refuse?"

Alan steered them to the edge of the tub. Only a third full or so, Jacuzzi jets swirled barely below the waterline. "Left foot in first. Hold on to me. Then down on your left side." Alan eased him down in the tub. "I'll take the dressing off once you're in."

Chutes of water splashed against the sides as Denny arranged himself with the bandage mostly up. Alan peeled off the blood-laden gauze. The staple line was completely obscured by clotted blood.

Alan reached for a washcloth.

"You're not staying in here." It was that inimitable Crane intonation that managed to balance precisely at the midpoint between a question and a statement.

"I don't wish to alarm you, but your incision is draining heavily. It requires some attention." Alan dabbed at the staples and Denny jumped.

A jet of water sprayed over the side and into Alan's chest.

"You're going to be completely soaked from these water sports," said Denny.

Alan continued to blot at the surgical site. "You might mean 'spouts,' but either way, I'll take my chances. I generally have to pay a good bit extra for that, so it seems that we have a win-win here."

In the background, the Love Machine crooned on, bragging about how he was qualified to satisfy you.


***


Dip. Swish. Wipe. Dip. Steam from the bath rose up around his eyes. The Jacuzzi motor hummed and Sade sang about a smooth operator as the disco ball turned round and round. Dip. Swish. Wipe. Dip. The rhythmic pattern became hypnotic. Dip. Swish. Wipe. Dip. He ran the cloth over the curve of Denny's rump so lightly, careful not to press too hard on the damaged flesh.

Dip. Swish. Wipe. Dip. With each pass, he blotted up just a little, then returned the cloth to the water to rinse and began afresh. Dip. Swish. Wipe. Dip. He wrung out the cloth and gently dabbed it along the staple edges again.

Dip. Swish. Wipe. Dip. Alan marveled at the variations and permutations of curves extant on the human body. How breasts and bottoms and shoulders and knees and cheeks and tummies and calves and wrists could all be so identically alluring in their sensuality and yet each one on each individual utterly unique. Dip. Swish. Wipe. Dip. Like the snowflakes, each was a miracle unto itself. But unlike the snowflakes, which dissipate at once upon first heat of tongue, a lucky and considerate man may have his curves and eat them too.

Dip. Swish. Wipe. Dip. Combined with the actions of a generous dollop of scotch on an empty stomach, the steam was making him more than a little light headed. It got worse as he leaned forward over the tub. In the background, Brandy bleated out a question, her plaintive adolescent voice asking the same thing over and over in a dozen different ways: had he ever?

Have you ever loved somebody so much...?

Had he ever? The words buzzed around his head as the disco lights spun around the room. Dip. Swish. Wipe. Dip. He must have he, was sure. He had memories, like still photographs, of girls and schools and stolen summer nights. There must have been a time that he had been that needy—that open. But it was so many years and pains and scars ago, that it seemed like a handful of passed over photos stumbled upon in a younger man's life.

He had certainly loved somebody so much as to be afraid to try again.

Dip. Swish. Wipe. Dip. His hands moved mechanically as the song played on. He tried to block out the insipid words, but like trying not to think of a pink bunny rabbit, that only made it worse and he choked back a sniffle—or maybe it was only the steam—at the lyrics that didn't seem so very trite any more.

Dip. Swish. Wipe. Dip. It took both hands to part Denny's cheeks, and the washrag was a little awkward in the small space, so somehow in the mix of music and lights and steam it got left in the bath. Swish. Slosh. Rub. Slosh. He worked on the crusted debris, running fingers over the bare skin, working them into the little matted hair . Swish. Slosh. Rub. Slosh.

"Alan?"

Alan startled. Oddly—with his fingers on a man's asshole—he had all but forgotten that he was not alone. "Yes, Denny?" Swish. Slosh. Rub. Slosh.

"There's no sutures in there."

"There's drainage matted in your hairs. It's a matter of hygiene if not explicit surgical aftercare. Hold still. This is another area of my expertise."

"Alan."

"Yes, Denny?" Swish. Slosh. Rub. Slosh.

"Because you're my friend, I'm going to count to three. Then you're going put both hands in the air and show them to me. If anything is still touching my asshole, I'm going get a gun and shoot you."

Alan chuckled and sat back on his heels. He drained his glass and poured another. "No worries. Your virtue is safe with me. I wouldn't dream of destroying all this exquisite sexual tension. For one thing, it would kill our ratings, and both my agent and I were counting on a fourth season. But moreover, it's the infinite possibilities of a sex affair that enchants me far more than any mundane realization.

"Within that artificially constructed world I can be and do and experience anything at all Nothing is out of bounds. After that, the coupling itself is so often only a bittersweet dénouement with possibility after possibility sequentially tossed to the trash."

"Not with me," Denny said. He sipped from his whiskey glass. "Sex with me has been known ruin women forever."

"Yes. So Becky at the Bagel Barn has told me."

Denny grunted. "Give it up, Alan; I'd ruin you."

Alan sniffed. "I've been ruined before. It's not so bad. And it only hurts a little at the beginning." He reached for a handful of cotton swabs and splashed more water over the staples.

"It's getting cold," Denny complained.

"Sorry." Alan ran some more hot water and swirled under the spigot with his hand.

"I kissed a man once," Denny said out of nowhere.

"Really? One of those Harvard secret society things?" Alan turned off the tap and began to swab around each staple.

"No. Key West. She said her name was Dorothy and that she could stomp her ruby heels, click her breasts together, and carry me away to Oz. Turns out, that like Dorothy, she had a pet riding in her basket. I put my hand down to pat the pussy, and Toto leaped out instead. Who knew?"

"Indeed. Judy Garland propositions you on the gay Riviera. Herbert Hoover himself would have been hard pressed to penetrate that disguise."

"He was a good kisser, too," Denny continued. "A shame I had to kick him out." Denny reached between his thighs and repositioned his balls. "My Tin Man had bolted up stiff in the forest and was squeezing and begging to be oiled."

"There are those who maintain that a mouth has no gender," said Alan in a conversational tone.

"If you're trying to talk me into a blowjob, it's not going to work."

Alan gave an abrupt snort. "In my twenty odd years of a legal career, I have had occasion to talk just about every sort of person into just about every sort of thing. Albeit, I have never had to talk a man into a blowjob. I believe that it contradicts at least one law of nature—likely more."

"Not my nature. You and your...gory holes," mumbled Denny.

"No, not me actually. I like my meaningless sex encounters to come with an identity—to know that our ships have crossed and to watch the other one in question sink gently over the horizon into the sunset and the vast seas beyond. It appeals to my romantic nature.

"It is my love affairs that that I require be devoid of as much personal revelation as possible."

"What is it you see in that sicko stuff?"

"Please specify which sicko stuff you mean. Even constraining the discussion to this week's exploits alone, the possibilities reach well into double-digits."

Denny grunted. "That homo stuff. What the draw? If it's the penis, you can buy them now, you know. Have them delivered mail order. Fed-Ex."

"Yes, I know. I keep a catalog on the table in my reception area along with USA today, People, Wall Street Journal, and Cosmo."

"So what'd the big deal then? Two holes to one. Two breasts to none. Seems like a bad trade to me."

"I don't think it is something you can understand."

Denny jerked his head around and glared, splashing water over the sides.

Alan shook his head. "That's not what I meant, you know that full well.

"It would be like trying to explain the difference between red and green to a person who was born color-blind. If you have to ask, there is no mutual foundation on which I can base an explanation.

"It's not as simple as an act or an appendage. There is a certain connection between two men that cannot be shared with women. When you join with a woman, you are acutely aware that man and woman are two disparate varieties created individually, and even in the most intimate of acts—or especially in said act—they will always be separated by factors which they cannot control.

"With men, it's different. You have a bond. Whether he is older or younger, you have either been where he is, or you will be one day."

"You'll never be where I am. God willing." Denny added the last in a different tone of voice.

"There are other kinds of loss beside the cognitive. The exact specifics are something of lottery, yes, but the eventuality of age and decay are not. If by chance, I do not meet my demise under the tires of another disillusioned one time paramour, I shall surely be where you are one day.

"I don't bother to wonder whether it will be brain or heart or kidneys or—the smart man's bet—liver that goes first, but I do confess to some curiosity as to if anyone will be there for me." Alan sat back on his heels. He hit the button and the jets, lights and music all stopped. He flipped a lever, and water began to drain from the tub.

"You should get married again," said Denny.

"I don't think I can." Alan stood to fetch a bath towel as well as his glass of scotch.

"It's not hard. Look at me. I'm up to six without trying. I'll even do it with you if it'll help."

"I'm not like you, Denny. There was something within me that was single use only."

Denny snorted. "A condom."

"Ha!" Despite himself, Alan laughed out loud.

Denny chuckled almost silently to the wall. "I was better off when I thought that homo business was only about the sex."

"Well, there's that too, but entirely secondary to other elements of physicality. As you say, there is little a man can offer as a sexual partner that can't be equaled or exceeded by a woman with a well-stocked toy chest and muscle in her dominant arm. And a woman can put her heels behind her ears as well."

Alan held the towel out in front of him. "It's the subtle aspects that change everything. When a woman holds you, she makes you believe that you have worth. That if you are good enough to lie with her, have her drawn to you, that there must be something within you fine and pure enough to deserve such empathy. But you know it cannot last, for you know how you are unable to stay pure.

"When a man holds you it doesn't matter if you are good or bad, or weak or strong, dirty or righteous. When you are in his embrace, you are safe from any evil—without or within. You are untouchable."

"You like that," said Denny.

"I do." Alan swallowed. "Can you stand?"

Denny twisted on the slippery porcelain.

Alan reached an arm down to help him to his feet. "And the brute power of a man impassioned is remarkable as well. Something that through no fault of their own, women cannot approach. But to be with someone whose solidity and strength exceeds yours is to be free sexually. You can let loose any wild throes that overcome you and need not fear for hurting the other.

"And don't we all yearn for a lover whom we cannot hurt, no matter what?" Alan held wide the towel.

Denny held onto the wall at the head of the tub, with one hand and a towel rack with the other. Standing sideways, he stepped out of the tub first with his one leg. Alan offered his arm and took most of his weight. With a grimace, Denny swung the other leg out of the tub.

He turned around to Alan.

Alan looked downward then up to Denny's face.

"It doesn't count; I was thinking of Shirley." Denny stepped into the towel. He paused as Alan leaned in to wrap the towel around his shoulders. His eyes widened.

"And I'd sleep better tonight if you told me that you are thinking of Shirley too. A real friend wouldn't be shirk at a little lie."

"You've got it, mister." Through the terrycloth, Alan patted him down. "Turn those big brown eyes on me, and I'll tell you anything you want to hear."

"'Cheney in 2008.'"

"Don't press your luck, or I'll finger paint a quail on your posterior and invite him over for drinks. Up against the counter, mister." Alan picked up a tube of antibiotic ointment.

"What?"

Alan gestured to the vanity. "Hands on the counter, bend over, and spread your legs. Pretend I'm Police Woman with a baton. Go."

Denny limped over to the sink. "Mm. Angie Dickinson. She was hot. I enjoyed her more in Big Bad Momma, though."

"Clearly. Though I am glad there is at least one person on the planet who did. Now quit stalling. You heard me, mister. Shed 'em and spread 'em." Alan slapped the tube against his palm with a resounding whap.

In the mirror, Alan saw Denny's eyes widen.

Denny dropped the towel to the floor and leaned over the sink. "All right, but no cavity search. I'll be good, honest."

Alan smacked the tube against his palm again. He squeezed out a squirt of goo. "This might sting at first."

"Hurry up and do it." Denny ground out.

"Now, now," Alan smoothed it over the necessary area of Denny's ass. "The finer things in life should not be rushed. And I intend to savor this fully. Would you pass me that packet, please?"

"Which one?" Denny had his eyes closed and his forehead hung down almost to the counter top.

"That one there." Alan pointed to a small, square individually wrapped pack on the counter.

"Where?" Denny's head hadn't moved.

"Never mind." Alan leaned forward onto Denny's backside, and stretched an arm around his shoulder.

"You're hurting me."

"It's for your own good. You'll thank me in a moment." With his teeth, Alan ripped open the wrapper. He removed the rubbery contents and studied it with queer consternation. "Do you know how to put one of these things on?"

"Just hurry up and get it over with; I'm cramping." Denny shuffled his feet.

"Keep your legs apart." Holding it by a pinch, Alan picked a spot along the edge of the flimsy article and began rolling with his thumb. When the backing came off, he threw it aside and pressed the sticky side of the wound dressing against Denny's rump.

Denny jumped. "Ow! Be gentle!"

Alan smoothed it over the curve of Denny's rump and rimmed the edges to help it stick. "Relax. It only gets better from here." Lightly, he slapped other good cheek and withdrew. "All right; I'm done. You can straighten up."

"You're enjoying this." Denny spat the words out.

"I am." Alan draped a terry robe around Denny's shoulders. "Why should you have all the fun? You've been encouraging me to find more joy in firearms, and I am finally beginning to see your point." He held the robe to allow Denny to work his second arm in. "Why does my pleasure bother you? Wasn't it good for you?"

Denny jerked the robe panels together and tied the sash loosely, but it failed to do the job. The evidence was obvious on direct examination of the gap. "I need a cigar." He stalked off into the bedroom.

"And don't follow me," Denny shot back. "I need a little alone time to...fire and clean out my hand cannon.

"Oh dear." Alan watched Denny walk away. He fussed with the sticky, wet splotches that covered majority of his shirt. From the corner of the bedroom, the face of Shirley Schmidt Ho appeared to mock him from where she lay, used, abused and utterly deflated on Denny's rug.

Resigned, Alan returned to the guest room alone.