A Toast to Starry Nights (19 page)

When dinner time rolled around, Wiley
and Dmitri both wore huge smiles as they lifted the charcoal-filled roaster lid
to reveal the pig. With silicone-gloved hands, they hefted the grill containing
the porky entree, complete with red apple in its mouth. We had no platter large
enough to contain the beast, so layers of blank newsprint paper were spread on
the glass-topped table and the porcine centerpiece put into place. Before it
went into the roaster, I placed herbs in a cheesecloth sack held against the
pig's insides to lend an aromatic scent to the flesh. Piggy injected and basted
in an infusion of coconut milk, ginger, garlic and black pepper gave it a
tropical taste. It met Dmitri's approval of Filipino inspired lechon.

Wiley broke a piece of ear off and
popped it into his mouth with a smile. “Damn, Dim, this brings back
memories...”

Dmitri replied, “I know. Remember that
little joint in Manilla, the Pooti Shack? This pig brings that back. Ah, the
divine Miz Pooti. She was great with meat. Little Miss Pooti, too. She could
handle my meat every day.”

Great, glad the Marine vets approved of
my recipe gleaned from the internet, although my curiosity got stoked by the
Miz/Miss Pooti remarks. Was Dmitri aiming for double entendre?

“The Divine Miz Pooti? Is this a story
for civilian ears?” Curiosity evident in my tone. I placed a huge salad bowl of
spinach, bacon, candied almonds and blue cheese upon the table and retrieved
the stack of paper plates from Jet's grasp. She also held three tankards
holding the flatware, looking a bit like a South Beach Beer Wench with a bottle
of balsamic vinaigrette secured in her armpit for transportation.

Dmitri actually giggled at what I can
only assume was the blatant tone of inquisitiveness my voice held. “Miz Pooti
was a tiny little old Filipino woman. Not a single tooth in her mouth. She'd
make passes at all the Marines who came to eat the lechon she'd whip up with
her grandkids turning a pig on a spit over an open fire. She really liked
Wiley. Little Miss Pooti was her granddaughter who was set to keep the family
legacy alive. Perhaps she got her grandmother's lechon genes because every time
I went to the Pooti Shack, it tasted awesome.”

“Shut up Dmitri.” Wiley's golden eyes
shone with humor as his lean face brandished a smile. “She loved me and my ass
in fatigues. Waited all her years for a handsome young warrior who made her
weak in the knees. She always gave me the choice bits of lechon because I let
her grab my ass. A lusty old woman. Give her a kiss on the cheek and she'd beam
with sunshine all afternoon, while fattening you up on her roasted pig. Give
her a kiss on each cheek, and she'd give you all the beer or cola you could
guzzle to go with the lechon. I wasn't brave enough to kiss her on the mouth
though... not sure I could handle her heady delights if she slipped me a little
tongue action.” He laughed. “I have very fond memories of that Filipino minx.”

“Yeah, you do recall the time she
smacked your ass with the flat side of her giant cleaver, right? And you fell
into the fire pit. That was minx-like.”

“No, I nearly fell into the fire. I bent
over to pick up the napkin she dropped then bam! She aimed for the taint. The
lechon saved me. I owe that pig a debt of gratitude. Miz Pooti never smacked my
ass after that... just stuck to pinches and grabs. I considered it a good trade
off.”

“She didn't want you ruining another
lechon and corrupting her business. Then how'd she retire to Hawaii and make
you her cabana boy?”

“The love Miz Pooti had for me was pure
and unsullied. Like the sound of roasted pig skin between the teeth. Don't dirty
it, Dim.”

I studied Wiley during his conversation
with Dmitri. Usually he carried himself with a military bearing; life was a
series of missions to accomplish in the most direct way possible. He stood at
ease during leisure time with hands clasped behind his back, at least when I've
seen him. Tall, must have been at least six foot four. His dark blonde hair
always kept in a clean buzz cut with a little extra on top and wire frame
glasses perched on his hawk-like nose.

I welcomed his addition of the roaster
as it helped to make an important day even more memorable with the novelty of a
whole roasted pig with an apple wedged in its gaping maw.

The Feast went well. There wasn't much
left over but the scrapings of bowls and a decimated skeleton of a pig. Looked
like wolves had joined us for dinner.

With a glance, I looked to Dmitri
sitting and laughing with Bryant and Wiley. He planned to announce our
engagement after dinner, but I wasn't sure when. After the entree and before
dessert is all I knew.

But now, Wiley's sixth or seventh
home-brewed beer in hand gotten him to the point of wide grins, loud laughs and
random ideas. He looked relaxed.

“Dim! What is this beer you brewed?”
Wiley held the pint glass aloft, as if to memorize those tiny bubbles within
the intoxicating elixir.

“That's the Scotch Brown Ale. How's it
setting with you?” Dmitri, ever proud of his brewing, beamed at the reverent
tone of his buddy's voice.

“I wish I were a Hobbit, as this is what
I would heft in my tankard should I find myself in a Scots pub.”

This was a new version of Wiley. An
intoxicated and mildly philosophical version of a former hard-ass. “So you'd
only drink it if you were a Hobbit?” I couldn't resist the opening he gave.

“No, but I think the intoxicating
effects would be more intense with one of less body mass. But I could be wrong.
For all I know, Hobbits grew up drinking beer and could probably out drink a
frat boy.”

Jet replied, “No, the Dwarves drink ale
like its water. If I were to put a bet on who'd get blitzed first, it would be
on the Hobbits, hands down. No matter how traumatized Frodo happened to be from
the horror of The Ring, Gimli could pound more, longer.” She threw a glance my
way. “The Silmarillion and the like were my reading fodder for years.”

Addressing Wiley, Dmitri asked, “Want to
try the Canadian Amber?”

Wiley not yet removed his predator gaze
from Jet who sat to the left of me. He ignored Dmitri and asked Jetnia in a
very deliberate voice, “Does it look like I've taken the stick out of my ass to
your satisfaction?” Irritation reigned supreme on his face as he looked at my
Maid of Honor with intense dislike and more than a hint of loathing.

I'm guessing he's still pissed about the
Christmas party... or else he's just a dickhead drunk.

Jet bestowed him with a scathing glance.
“Don't know, sweetheart. Stand up and bend over so I can get a look. Did you
lose the leg to your tripod or something? Just warning you, I'm not pulling it
out if it's still up there. That'd be a dinner date sort of activity. You pay,
of course.” A glittering smile of Fuck You Very Much! Then the gauntlet got
chucked. She puckered up and blew Wiley a sarcastic kiss.

Uh ohs.

Jet is not known to be gracious,
well-behaved or nice. When pushed, she pushes back twice as hard. I've never witnessed
Wiley drunk, and I didn't know if this qualified. Either way, friction was
evident and if at all possible, I'd rather not have those chosen as Maid of
Honor and Best Man be at each others throat. Not today, at least, you know,
when we announce our engagement to our brohams. I looked to Dmitri to see if he
happened to be concerned about his intoxicated friend trying to start shit with
a natural-born scrapper.

Dmitri looked alarmed if the height of
his eyebrows and the stern set of his lips meant anything special.

Time to break out the fire extinguisher.
“Hey Jet, can you help me in the house?” Perhaps removing her from the
situation would give Dmitri a moment to talk his buddy back down to being
congenial once again. I stood and picked up a huge salad bowl to return to the
kitchen for sanitation.

“Sure.” A regal nod of her dark head and
Jet arose to walk with me back towards the kitchen's air-conditioned haven,
pots and pans in hand.

“What was that about?” I whispered as we
ambled upon the patio to the deck steps.

“Dunno. But he started it.” Jet didn't
bother to whisper. Guess she was getting in touch with her child inside.

“Did not. You started it back in
December. Worst Christmas ever. Thanks by the way.” Wiley didn't bother to
whisper either. In fact, his voice rang with a certain authoritative tone that
carried over the din of surrounding conversations. All eyes within earshot were
upon the intoxicated lawman and miffed librarian.

Jet turned around. “I didn't start
anything with you, mister. If I had, I'm damn sure I would remember. I don't
know what your damage is, but if you do have some sort of bowel distress, I
suggest you talk to a proctologist or psychologist about such a personal issue.
I lack the credentials needed to understand why you are fixating on mentioning
and being an asshole.” She resumed walking up the steps with me. “Come on,
Kaykay, let's get this done.”

Wiley didn't know when to stop. Maybe it
was the beer, perhaps the seven months of stewing... whatever it was that
bothered him, it didn't slow down his mouth's horse as it ran straight towards
the figurative burning barn. “You know, I know exactly what kind of dame you
are... you're the kind of gal who butts into conversations to add some snarky
commentary to anyone within earshot.” Caleb Boldton cocked his head to the side
and snarled, “And from the looks of it, a tatted, diseased bimbo. I would say
whore, but I don't know if you have to be paid to get nailed. I suppose in a
modern sense, me buying you dinner as suggested earlier would constitute a form
of prostitution, right? Free meal then you get all kinky?

Silence.

Dmitri put a hand on Wiley's shoulder
and issued a stern warning of “Dude, chill...” didn't do much to mellow the
fuming giant.

Jet mumbled/growled, “Oh, that is
fucking it!” and stalked off to the house only to return a few moments later
wearing her flame red platform heels with tiny white stars.

Thank God, no cast iron pan in hand.

With a catwalk saunter, she strode
towards the two men. “No, Dmitri, it's okay. Your friend is indeed entitled to
his opinion of me. He's ignorant.” Jet stalked up to Wiley. She got in his face
as much as she could without physically touching him, and because of the heels,
stood eye to eye to the pissed off Game Warden. She spoke low and very clearly
to Wiley in a deceivingly friendly voice.

“You may think whatever you like about
me. The fact is you know nothing about me. Nothing. You may see a tatted slut,
bimbo, whatever blows your skirt up, but that's because you are an ignorant fool.
I don't know what I did to piss you off last year, so unless you stop acting
like an assjacket and tell me what the fuck is up, I won't apologize. So what
bug is up your posterior, Mr. Party Foul?”

She leaned in and raised a finger to
almost touch his nose with a bright blue nail. “Oh! I needed to share this with
ya before I forget. You don't need to call me a whore, because unlike some
females I don't cash in on free dinners in exchange for sex. I actually pay for
myself, just so fucktard males can't pull that fucked up train of thought out
of their pants with the fucking expectation of it being swallowed. Fuck
assjackets like that. Like you. Chauvinist bastards like you are the downfall
of a modern society evolution because you think its a God-given right to keep a
female in her place. Fuck you, asshole. Why don't you go have another beer?”
This all was said with a friendly grin on her face.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I know who I'd
like to nominate for the Best Actress Oscar.

With a final bat of her eyes and another
bright shining smile, the battleship Jetnia turned and sailed my way only to
grab my arm to tow me inside the cool recesses of the house's sanctum.

I felt cold. Icy cold. Not the
blissful-oh-God-Thank-You-For-Air-Conditioning kind of cold. It veered
decidedly towards terrible chemistry resulting in explosive personalities
getting set off before the main fireworks with no fire extinguishers in a ten
mile radius.

It had been a good eight years since I
heard a dressing down issued by her with such venom in her voice. As I set the
wooden salad bowl upon the counter, Jet's voice broke the silence.

“I hate men. Fucking overabundance of
testosterone makes them de facto assholes.” Jet stated it as fact. In some
regards I agree with her... but then all I have to do is imagine being male and
I'm certain I'd feel the same towards females. Can't live with some, can't live
without some. Jet said under her breath, “At least vibrators don't talk back.”

Thoughts flew about my mind. A) I did
not like Wiley insinuating Jet was a whore. She liked to strut her stuff, but
when it came to dating, her taste runs very selective. The woman is content
being single. B) Possible repercussions of those selected by my beau and I to
stand up with us while we spoke our vows potentially destroying the wedding
ceremony itself by some verbal missile right on target at a most inopportune
moment. C) Maybe eloping would be better? D) Is Wiley an in-the-closet
douchebag?

“Want me to find out what his issue is?
Because I have never heard him ever talk like that.” Granted, that didn't mean
much. I had only met him a handful of times. “That was not cool. You are not a
bimbo, Jet. You are a serial monogamist.” I also wanted things more at ease
when the engagement got announced. The way things spiraled out of control with
anger issues and verbal poison made this party a bit more awkward than the last
Christmas party. Wasn't kosher. Thankfully the younglings weren't close enough
to hear Jet's rampant use of her favorite four-letter word.