volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

Mel pouts.
“Hey, you’re not Brad Pitt. You’re the Galloping Gourmet.”
“I called out.”
At this Mel and Rick observe a moment of silence.
“It’s raining outside.”
Mel chuckles.
“Mild-mannered Roy Weston squeegees windows by day, but
by night dons leotards to become—Weather Man!”
Roy’s uncertain smile deepens as if he’s one of them, as if he’s
cool, as if he gets it—very funny stuff.
Two blue and two hazel eyes follow him as he trudges across
the vast kitchen to the white-tiled counter, his scarred-up work
boots leaving muddy patches on the clean linoleum floor.
The kitchen is an old fashioned, mid-nineteenth century
farmhouse affair with tall ceilings, picture rail, and a big central
light suspended from a chain. The walls are dark green, the
refrigerator avocado. The gas stove is the best thing in the
kitchen, as far as Roy’s concerned. He prefers gas to electric.
Here in the Northwest, it seems everybody but Yuppies has
electric.
Mel has all the neat appliances you could ever want—a big
microwave oven that can hold a turkey, a toaster with bagel-sized
slots, a powerful blender and a chrome Cuisinart he won’t let
Roy touch.
Ever.
Mel, a mid-Twentieth century, middle-aged white gay man,
is by nature very laid back, even when not drinking martinis.
Unlike Rick, when Mel drinks he laughs a lot and becomes
friendlier. His thin, steel-gray hair is worn cropped close to the
skull so that his scalp shines through, and he wears a diamond
stud in his left ear. Shorter than Roy, but taller than Rick, he’s
gone soft in the middle, with deep crow’s feet at the corners of his
eyes, probably from laughing so much because he’s gay.
Rick views Roy as if he’s a rodent.
“The fuck he make last time, tasted like dog puke?”
Roy settles his plastic Safeway bag onto the immaculate
countertop. He hates the sound plastic bags make. Usually he
can’t hear their chemical rustle because of his tunes.
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY