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Twice a year, the Boone County Community Park put on a white elephant sale to raise funds for said park’s upkeep. Ten bucks got you a ten-by-ten spot in the field where you could set up a card table and sell whatever, provided it wasn’t porn, drugs or tobacco, farm livestock, firearms, alcohol, or sex toys. Before each event, the park planning and maintenance committee elected an official among themselves to vet each vendor and their wares to ensure proper observation of the rules. You violated any, you weren’t allowed back to sell. Ultimately, at least one person attempted every time to pull a fast one.
This time around, the task fell to Clyde Logan, who volunteered his services to the committee following his recent incarceration for criminal mischief. It seemed like a good way to redeem himself in the eyes of his peers, though hardly anybody faulted Clyde for the slip-up that resulted in him crashing his car through that gas station storefront. Still, Clyde’s mama had instilled in him a sense of fellowship and charity, and the committee only met once a month so it wasn’t like he was giving up much of his social life.
As supervisor, Clyde arrived at the park an hour before the event to inspect every table against a list of contraband items decided upon by the committee. He’d memorized the hand-written pamphlet so he could drink his coffee while strolling from booth to booth. Having lost his left hand and lower forearm in Iraq, his mechanical prosthetic improved his post-service quality of life but he didn’t trust it to hold a Styrofoam cup without puncturing it.
First stop on the tour: one of his sister Mellie’s salon regulars. Everybody called her the Purple Lady for obvious reasons. This morning she was decked out in a royal shade, from her jumpsuit to the bandanna shielding her hair from the sun. Stacks of unused Mary Kay products comprised the bulk of her inventory, along with an item Clyde had to check.
He picked up the Hitachi wand with his prosthesis. “I don’t think you can sell this,” he said.
“It’s a back massager, Clyde. It’s perfectly legal.”
Clyde could easily argue for the device’s use in massaging more sensitive body parts, if he trusted his instincts. “Is it used?”
The Purple Lady looked away. Ew.
Clyde handed it back to her. “Ain’t nobody buying a used vibrator, anyway. Sorry.”
On it went. He approved these things and advised sellers to hide one or two questionable items. It took about thirty minutes and he finished his coffee halfway through the inspection, right about the time the food trucks started pulling into their designated spots. Clyde’s stomach rumbled at the sight of a giant cartoon taco waving from one truck’s side panel. He hoped the trucks used those credit card swipers attachments for mobile phones; he wanted to save his cash for the sale.
He approached the final table, his heart thudding a tick faster than usual at the sight of Stensland staging his inventory. Since the red-haired man’s arrival in Boone County six months ago, Stens and Clyde enjoyed a mutual flirtation that, unfortunately, hadn’t progressed further than an agreement to “hang out sometime.” The stars resisted alignment in that regard. Clyde worked nights and Stens worked days, and on the rare occasion both men shared a day off somebody or something got in the way.
Maybe today was different, though. This being Sunday, the furniture store where Stens worked was closed, and Clyde was off from Duck Tape owing to his presence here. Clyde watched Stens bend at the waist to dig into a cardboard box, and he fixated on the man’s peachy ass and pale thighs for a good minute before working up the nerve to speak.
“I like your tablecloth.” Clyde rubbed a corner of the soft fabric, tiny strawberries against a light pink background, between his thumb and forefinger.
Stens set a plastic bucket filled with hat pins and novelty buttons on one corner of his table. “Thanks. It’s the only thing not for sale here, unless I get a good offer,” he said.
“What would you ask for it?” Not that Clyde wanted it, but it looked cheery. He imagined Stensland decorated his entire place in a similar motif.
“From you?” Stens leaned on the table and chewed his lower lip, thinking. “One dollar.”
Seriously. “That’s a good offer?”
Stens lowered his gaze a bit, then peered up through his lashes. Very coy. “Assuming it comes with an invitation to take me to the movies.”
“I suppose I gotta buy the popcorn, too,” Clyde said. No problem, he could afford it. He’d spring for the new theater in Manila with IMAX. Lift the armrest dividing the seats. Sit close to share the snacks.
“Yes, but I’ll smuggle in the strawberry Twizzlers. Movie theater candy is so overpriced.”
Fine by Clyde. A plan pieced together, and they only needed to set a day… what is that? Clyde picked up the object in question, a stubby piece of blown glass with colorful candy cane stripes and a large divot at one end. Sex toy? Clyde’s mind went to anal plug based on the shape. What would possess Stens to put this out next to a stack of VHS tapes?
“Oh, that’s a pipe.” Stens took it back and demonstrated its use. He put the narrow end close to his lips and dipped his finger in the bowl. “The weed goes in here–”
Clyde got it now. “Stens, you can’t sell that here,” he said.
“Why not?” The freckles sprinkled over Stens’s cheeks seemed to darken with his growing frustration. Still cute. “The rules said no drugs. I left my stash at home.”
Thank the lord for that. “Drug and smoking paraphernalia falls under that category. I ain’t seen a pipe like that before, but even if you put regular tobacco in it, it counts.” No bongs, no vape cartridges, no t-shirts with five-pronged leaf designs. “Can you put it in your pocket?”
“If I must.” Stens sighed hard and hid the offending item. “I’ll have you know, Clyde, it’s no ordinary pipe. It was given to me by a mystic when I lived in Seattle. It’s more of a talisman.”
Clyde, a skeptic despite his upbringing, raised an eyebrow. “Does it grant wishes?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Stens nodded. “I’ve enjoyed some amazing luck with it, and I only wished to pass it along to some poor soul in need of encouragement.” He traced a strawberry on the tablecloth with his pinky. “It’s actually a crystal inlay piece,” he said, “which makes it semi-precious. I happened to notice that lady over there selling pendulums and selenite towers–”
“She’s selling rocks, Stens. You can’t smoke weed with a rock.”
Stens pulled himself up to his full height, one inch short of Clyde but hardly intimidating. Every mannerism, every facial quirk only increased the adorable factor and Clyde had to smile even when Stens yelled at him.
“You’d be surprised at how many things can be Macguyvered into a bong if you’re desperate, Clyde,” Stens told him, and pointed at the taco truck. “I once hollowed out an empanada and smoked a bowl with it.”
“Chicken or steak?”
“I forget now. That particular strain knocked me on my ass.”
“Stens.” Clyde moved to where Stens stood. People crowded the field now to browse the tables, and Clyde wanted to give them room. “Rules are rules, all right? I’m not saying this to be mean. I don’t want you getting in trouble.”
“Clyde, be a rebel for once.”
Clyde had. Indirectly, it was how he got the new forearm.
He watched Stens sag a bit, then recover. When the man reached for his good hand Clyde obliged. “Thank you, Clyde, for looking out for me,” he said. “Although, my offerings don’t seem so enticing without the pipe as a conversation piece. I’ll be happy to break even today on my table fee.”
“Maybe you ought to hang onto that pipe if it’s good luck,” Clyde said. He looked down at his lucky horseshoe ring, which Stens grazed with his thumb. “Anyway, it’s probably not good to sell a talisman. If you got it as a gift, you should give it away yourself.”
Stens closed the gap between them. Clyde tightened his hold on Stens. “Would you like it, Clyde?” he asked. “Something to remember me by?”
“Where you going?”
Stens winked. “Wherever you like.”
Clyde’s stomach fluttered at that. “Only times I ever smoked weed was rolled up in a joint. I don’t use bongs or pipes,” he said, then realized how silly he sounded. This was clearly an invitation from Stens for much more. “I mean, I don’t know how.”
“Well,” Stens flicked his gaze away for a few seconds to check out the group crowding his table, “if you’re free tonight I’ll show you.”
~*~
Clyde sat in his car for about three minutes, about how long it took for the song to end. He considered it good luck to switch on his favorite radio station right before a Bob Seger two-shot. He listened to “Main Street” and “Like A Rock” on the drive to Stensland’s singlewide, and waited for the next station break to get out. Bad luck to cut off Bob.
Plus, he was nervous despite mental assurances to the contrary. He liked Stens and Stens liked him back. This was a fact acknowledged by Clyde’s siblings and any regular at Duck Tape who witnessed the two interact. Get out of your own head and have a good time, his brother Jimmy told him when he left for this date.
He brought a pack of strawberry Twizzlers, which Stens clutched to his chest in childlike delight upon greeting Clyde. “Let’s go out back,” he said after giving Clyde the ten-cent tour of his home. “It’s where I usually decompress before starting another week at work.”
“I thought you liked your job.” Clyde followed Stens out his back door and down to a small fenced-off yard. He marveled at the setup of multiple strands of fairy lights threaded through the chain links. A lighted fire pit sat in the middle of the grassy lot with two low-seated beach chairs set close together. Stens’s stash jar and the magical pipe rested on the lid of the stone-edged pit next to a plastic grocery bag of s’mores fixings.
“In case you get the munchies, which I always do,” Stens said with a wink.
Clyde lifted his prosthetic. “You might have to help with that. This isn’t really conducive to holding thin sticks.”
He waved his mechanical “fingers” at Stens, who reached out for one and stroked it. Clyde wished for the sensation of the man’s touch.
“You can’t stick a marshmallow directly on it? That would be something to see.”
“I wouldn’t chance a short circuit.”
They tabled further discussion of roasting techniques and settled in to blaze. Stens took the first hit and guided Clyde’s use of the pipe. “A bit of warning,” he said, “this is a new to me strain, called Starkiller Base. I’m told it’s pretty strong if you’re not a regular smoker, but that can mean anything.”
In Clyde’s case, it meant watching Stens’s backyard melt into a kaleidoscope of colors. Green grass and ginger hair swirling into a pack of twisted licorice. The munchies hit instantly and Clyde leaned to one side to gnaw on the end of a candy ribbon tube dangling in front of his face. Sweet, chewy, sticking in his teeth but delicious, especially when he reached the soft and wet part.
Wait…
Clyde fought the high and willed his vision to focus better. Stens had been eating the other end of the licorice, and like Lady and the Tramp they ended up munching their way to a kiss. Clyde had seen that movie a hundred times with his niece, though. The dogs didn’t slip tongues.
Their loss. Clyde leaned back in his chair and pulled Stens to straddle him as they made out. Probably his best and worst idea of late. Clyde loved sitting with Stens flush on his lap and grinding on his thighs, but the beach chair collapsed underneath them. This put Clyde on his back with a metal bar digging into his shoulder blades.
“Ow.” Yet Clyde laughed, along with Stens when they broke free. “Looks like I owe you a chair.”
“I’ll sell it at the park next time,” Sten said, “but you were right about the pipe. Its magic is too powerful. I’m hanging onto it.”
Clyde rested his head on the grass and looked up at the night sky. The Big Dipper tilted and turned and spilled a galaxy’s worth of stardust over the dark. “Did your wish come true?”
Stens curled up alongside Clyde, burrowing his face against his chest. “Yes, Clyde, it did.”
“Mine, too.”