Thursday, March 12, 2009


Last month, we went with Jeffrey to see the movie, Milk.
In the theater’s lobby, he asks for two boxes Goobers from the skinny hipster teenager working the candy counter. I protest, "JEFFREY! TWO boxes of Goobers? You're diabetic! You will die."
He buys the Goobers anyway and I buy a small Diet Coke and we, Jeffrey, Scott ad I head into the theater. During the film, four seats down, the chocolate covered peanuts dance loudly, nervously and awkwardly within their cardboard clubs. At the end of the film, when the reel and the lights turn white, Jeffrey throws the boxes of Goobers at us. "Here, take the fuckin' candy."
The boxes are warm and still unopened. He bought the candy for us. I should have known.

Jeffrey turns 59 today. Junior, the cook in the kitchen, makes him a buttermilk penis pancake with whip cream and strawberries. Then the kitchen staff sing Happy Birthday loudly and purposely out of tune. He tells us about his big birthday plans. He’s going to a gay bar. A gay bar where they don’t wear a lot of clothes, he tells us. "
With who Jeffrey?" I ask. "Myself, they open at three."
That night, I wonder if he did go to that bar or if he stayed at home watching his bootlegged copy of Mamma Mia with Meryl Streep for the thousandth timeI hope tomorrow morning he doesn't say, "I ate three fuckin' bowls of cereal for dinnah last night."