Anton Adams

I do not care if I am embarrassing you. Or using your real name for that matter.

Yes, you Anton Adams!

You caught me completely off guard this afternoon at Albertsons. Well, now Albertsons-Osco of course, though I do not know why they had to complicate things. They already had a drugstore for goodness sake. Nobody wanted to shop at Osco before. Do they really think they can strongarm the houseboys and homemakers of Tucson, Arizona into going there now? I do not think so.

You know what I think it is like? I think it is like when some unspectacular journalist (you know who you are!) is given a guest commentary on the number one rated news show in southern Arizona in hopes of winning hearts and a weekend anchor position. Well, it does not fool anyone. At least not those of us who wash his car and walk his dogs and pick the weeds on his vacant and inherited properties. Say what you will about our loyalties to each other, but we domestics are tight with the dishes. Know what I mean? Everyone, everyone in this community at least, knows very well what is going on even if they cannot discuss it openly and keep their jobs at the same time. Do yourself a FAVOR and stop pretending just because this is Tucson nobody knows what CURRY is, okay?

So yes, that is what it is like at Albertsons now. For the love of God, now they do not even have manicotti shells. Six different lines of men’s hair coloring and not a single brand of manicotti shells. What is up with that? I am no expert on the ins and outs of sexism but this smells like reverse disemination to me. I would venture a guess that more men who shop there are looking for manicotti shells than Feria. Who is going to buy all of that hair coloring? Do you know, Anton?

And speaking of feathers, Jesus Christ, that place is Cock Central. Not the Official Name. Ha, ha! Handsome men everywhere. Which I suppose is why I was somewhat surprised by you today. Oh, it is not that I do not think you are attractive. Of course you are! But I suppose I thought you were someone else. Definitely not a case of distant beauty, but like that, but mistaken identity.

Also, go ahead and call me a Rules Girl, but I do not date other houseboys. You bitch! I didn’t mean to really call me a Rules Girl. Anyhow, there I was cutting through the cheeses on my way to the butcher block, my hands full of buttermilk and Crisco, thinking that the cook has once again mixed up this and last weeks’ menus, knowing there is no way these are the real ingredients for Oprah’s Un-fried Chicken and I cannot help but notice this gorgeous young man with jet black hair eyeing the sirloin. How long was it that you knew I was appraising your counterfeit Prada belt buckle when I finally looked up and realized it was you? Wait. Don’t tell me. Now I’m the one who is embarrassed because I think you of all people in this Tonka Toy town can tell that when I get turned on by a sight like another houseboy poking around at his master’s dinner meat, the first thing I do is undress myself with his eyes. In this case, it was your big black eyes, like two burnt out fuses, the cause of a devastating and hot fire that ruins me for insurance purposes.

And I guess you caught me doing it this time, Fire Marshall Anton!

Anyhow, with you I am prepared to break all the rules. To be honest, ever since the first day I saw you there at the West-Eastern Blenman Elm Houseboy Organized Services, Inc. benefits package briefing, I have harbored secret love fantasies in the back of my head about us. Imagining what our homosexual union recognition ceremony will be like. I know how you hate the term gay marriage. Well, me too! Yet another reason perhaps that we were made for one another.

Today must be our lucky day. I am more than happy to drive you home because it is raining and that tightwad lawyer boss of yours claims that if people are going to take his Green Party bid seriously, everyone in his employ has to start riding bikes. As if this were Holland. Or China. He is lucky it is not, because if that were the case that hunky driver of his, Ferdy Tang, might just take that speech to heart one of these days and show up on a tandem. Oops, did I say driver? I meant boyfriend.

And the thing about his not drinking any Scotch that is not organic and expecting you to find such a thing—who ever heard of such a thing? With the few beads he gives you to shop with… Well, what a freak. I know of a bottle that won’t be missed at our house though and I think it’s just as well because I feel as if you and I, I mean we still have a lot to talk about.