"Well, Alex was the love of my life. And he was from Des Moines so we moved here and I started my company," Stuart, the gay Scottish decorator we had hired, said to me.
I was in Des Moines as part of a team organizing a town-hall meeting with a presidential candidate. Never mind the year or the candidate.
"That's wonderful," I replied. I was distracted. Partly, it was Stuart's accent, but the other, larger part was his decorating scheme. We were cutting baby-blue chiffon as part of Stuart's decorating scheme. In a few days, a presidential candidate was going to stand in front of this chiffon and say "I should be the new commander in chief of the US armed forces." We wanted to tell people 'our guy is a strong, powerful leader,' but our coloring scheme said 'it's a boy!' I was thinking about this when Stuart said "Then three months ago, the bastard died on me."
He said it like you might say "It's fifty-seven degrees outside" or "I think Jack Nicholson's a hell of an actor." It was without any inflection of sorrow: a statement of fact. Nonetheless, when someone says "The love of my life died," you can't respond, "We should reconsider your color scheme."
"The thing is," Stuart continued "immigration is a nightmare here, and we obviously couldn't get married - or whatever you want to call it - so Alex and I put everything in his name. It was simpler. I ran the business, but he helped out occasionally. I guess he was a kept man, in a way." He laughed.
I nodded. Stuart was loading the chiffon into a bin in order to carry it up to the catwalk above our heads. Chiffon is a sheer fabric. The words 'sheer fabric' and 'strong leader' don't usually fit in the same newspaper article.
When it comes to tragedy, I have the emotional maturity of a seven-year old; that is, if someone feels bad, he should get a lollypop. If someone feels really bad, he should get more... say a four thousand dollar contract to decorate a presidential event. I said nothing and thought: 'The conversation will move on to something else, then somehow maybe we can make the baby blue look tough and manly.'
"Alex was a wonderful person, just as kind as could be, but his parents... I hate to judge but, well, trailer trash is the only way I can describe them.
"The way the law works they were the next of kin, so they took everything. They hadn't dealt with Alex being gay, and when they came to the house after he died, they just told me to get out."
He said all of this in that same just-the-facts tone. He would have made Joe Friday proud.
At this point, if Stuart wanted to put pink bows surrounding a huge banner that said 'Anarchist Pederasts for Terrorism!' behind our candidate, I would have been OK with it.
Across the room, my boss, let's call him James, saw the huge strips of blue chiffon and was walking fast towards us, glowering.
"Then they locked the door to the warehouse where I kept all my fabrics and my equipment. I don't think they wanted the business, but they didn't want to give it to me. So, I lost the business, I lost the house... but I still have some clients and, well, you borrow money and do what it takes to keep going. It's like breathing, you know? If you stop, you just die."
Stuart, in this situation, was unfairly poetic. The Scottish accent made him sound both tragic and polished and the wording was perfect. He reminded me of Braveheart without the war paint and broadsword, but with a Dolce and Gabbana belt and an armful of chiffon instead: Braveheart after queer eye for the war guy.
James arrived. He did not look happy.
Stuart looked at him, "This will look beautiful with some blue up-lights on it," he said.
James beckoned me away, then said: "Nick, I don't think Stuart is going to work out."
He was completely right. There was no question Stuart was wrong for this event. "I think we should keep him," I said, "maybe this will look good with some blue up-lights on it."
When James fired Stuart, I wasn't there. I left expressly for the purpose of being not there. When I saw Stuart packing up his materials, I said "thanks for your help" without making eye contact.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Nick" he said. He was smiling, impossibly optimistic.
Of course, I have no idea what he was thinking, but I like to imagine that he was looking forward to his next job: a wedding or baby shower he would execute perfectly. It would get his business rolling and it would be the beginning of a long recovery that would start with a new house and owning his own business again. Years down the line he might even fall in love and maybe finally get citizenship. In the meantime though, the bride at Stuart's perfectly planned wedding would look around and see the day she imagined since childhood. The cake would be perfect; the groom tall, dark, and handsome; and the guests dressed in elegant gowns and tuxedos. She might even stand in her own brilliant white gown with the man she loved and think how beautiful and just and fair the world can be.