I met Randall the first day of clown school, a shy and reserved middle-aged bumpkin trying to put some pizzazz in his life. He wasn't that good, didn't have a body that drove women wild, but he did have that je ne sais quoi and the magic vibrating weasel; an irresistible combination.
We found an apartment and made like lovebirds, cooing and billing and flowers and candy and Victoria's really secret, secret gifts.
All the glittery, sparkling romance ended like the effervescence on three-day old champagne when I visited his cabin. It's sad when the dream confronts the reality; when the stars become twenty-five watt bulbs in driftwood lamps, papier mache shades and velvet paintings of Elvis in toreador pants.
I wanted not to like it, being with Randall.
I wanted to be able to say No, this isn't any good, him with his dead deer body part lamps and his dead heads everywhere and his belly pooching out over his jeans and his liking to take naked pictures of me all the time.
And that fake curly hair of his.
But I played it out until the end, and the end was Randall T. traveling out to Denver and turning into a Western Man and leaving me behind.
--Dave F./Robin S.