Mikey looked at George as if George were some wise sage from biblical times.
“Sorry,” said George. “I’m digressing again. You’ll get used to it. These are the kinds of things I ponder while chopping six pounds of celery. Please, go on.”
“As a teen,” Mikey continued. “I turned to westerns.”
“So, you went from superheroes to cowboys, one icon to another.”
“Is that weird, George?”
“No. Not at all. I don’t know the psychology behind it, but someone does...guaranteed. I would venture to say it helped mold your work ethic and your loyalty, but that could have also been your parents.”
“I read Louis L’Amour, Zane Grey... all the classics I could get my hands on. But when I found the Borders store at Bailey’s Crossroads—”
“Let me guess—” George chuckled. “—you discovered the enormous section of gay fiction there.”
“YES.” Mikey nodded. “But within it, I found a section ofgay westerns.”
“A whole new world. No wonder you went out of the way for that particular store.”
“I devoured them, George. Then I moved on to the regular gay stuff. That’s how I learned a lot about being gay. I didn’t have any role models. My ma isn’t anti-gay, but she couldn’t offer much support because she had no resources. So, I found my own.”
“Just fiction, no non-fiction?”
“A few from time to time. It kinda bores me. I like humorists though, like David Sedaris and Alec Collier.”
“I know the former. The latter sounds familiar.”
“Collier had a local column forThe Post. It just ended—Tales of the Circle.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve read it.” George said. “Funny stuff.”
“He’s writing romances now. I just finished his first. It’s good, and guess what, George—it has a cowboy in it!”
“Giddy-up.”
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Mikey asked, a faint trace of the insecurity resurfacing. “I’m weird.”
George shook his head. “No. But youarefull of surprises, Mikey Napolitano.”
“How so?”
“Well, you’re out and proud, singing in the streets with pure abandon—not only pop and show tunes, but opera, mind you.”
Mikey blushed. “The opera comes from my grandmother. She played records all the time when I was little. She thought Maria Callas was a saint.”
“Oh, yeah... my Dad too. She was aGreeksaint, no less. But you’re also a voracious reader, and you love cowboys—manlymen.”
“Manly chefs,” Mikey said, lowering his voice to a purr.
“You’re Italian—”
“I love Spaghetti Westerns.”
“—bearish—”
“I’m super cuddly.”
“Totally. And you work a blue-collar job in an iconic uniform.”
