When Love Takes Over - 3. Brandon Flounders

When Love Takes Over

Chapter 3

When I got in my truck and drove away, I had no destination in mind. I just knew I needed to be alone. Anger is not the only thing that makes me want to be alone; though I’m not really shy, I am an introvert and I like to be alone to do my healing. So I didn’t want to call friends or see them. In fact, my phone was off; while I was packing, text messages from Reed had already started coming in, but I wasn’t ready to read them or talk to him. In fact, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to see him again. Part of me knew that wasn’t really true, but it’s how I was feeling right now.

After driving mindlessly for a bit, I realized I was heading for the French Quarter, which didn’t surprise me. I love the Quarter, and had even been lucky enough to find an apartment there in the years immediately after Katrina. But even before living there, it was where I had headed during my days off or when I was down or bored; walking those ancient streets, feeling the breeze off the river, losing myself in the crowds had always been magical for me and soothed me when I was feeling low. I didn’t go there much anymore; it had never been Reed’s favorite place---he thought it was a little too grimy, especially since we had been hanging out with the Uptown crowd who considered going to the Quarter as slumming. I was drifting down Canal Street when the sign for the Ritz-Carlton caught my eye.

I had been to the Ritz for the spa once or twice as well as for various other reasons, but had never actually stayed there. Reed and I had always talked about spending a weekend there and being tourists in our own town, but never actually did it. Something always seemed to come up; something more important. “Why not?” I thought. I knew I couldn’t afford to stay there more than a couple of nights, but if I were going to crawl into a den to lick my wounds, why couldn’t that den be in a luxury hotel at least for a night or two?

I pulled in and handed my keys to the valet. He was too well trained to say anything, but a single manicured eyebrow was raised over my old and battered, if well maintained, pickup and my stained jeans. The attractive blonde at the front desk had much better training and managed to keep a poker face as she followed my request to look for an available room.

“How many nights, sir?” she asked.

“Two, I guess.”

“All right. We have some singles available. How will you be paying?”

I opened my wallet and looked for my bank card. As I was searching for it, I noticed the American Express card Reed had given me to use for business expenses. I had meant to leave it on the entry table with my keys. I smiled, pulled it out, and handed it to the woman.

“I’ll be using Am Ex. And can you see if you have any suites available? By the way, make it for three nights.”

The smile was long gone by the time I had been shown to my room and my few possessions had been settled in. After the bellboy left, I had taken a long shower, noting that it was a definitely a shame Reed and I had never stayed here. The suite had what I can only call a pornworthy shower. Big enough to host an orgy in, with multiple shower heads, a built in bench and body sprays. “We could have had fun here,” I thought sadly. And if I were honest, which I had to admit I didn’t particularly want to be right now, Reed had pushed for it several times; it was usually me who had decided we were too busy or had too many obligations. I always figured there would be a next time.

Clean, smelling like expensive lavender body wash, and wrapped in a luxurious white terry robe, I sat on the sofa, thoroughly depressed. I like to have plans. I like to make lists. I often ignore those plans and lists, but making them soothes me. I like to have projects. I like to have things to do. I like to know what I’m doing next after my current project ends. I like order and hate change. And for the first time in a very long time, I had no idea what I was going to do next. Or even worse, what I wanted to do next. There were the important questions I was trying to settle: Where would I live? Where would I work? Did I want to even stay in New Orleans? But while these thoughts circled my brain endlessly, the really important question writhed below: What was I going to do about Reed? I decided that raiding the mini-bar for a couple of tiny bottles of bourbon would help me figure out the answers.

While in many ways I am happy go lucky and try not to sweat the small stuff, I tend to overthink some things and have the kind of mind that is never still. Even in quiet times, it’s working. Sometimes on work projects, sometimes composing mental essays, sometimes playing the “What If” game. And one “What If” game I had played that I imagine most people play who are in a relationship is “What would I Do if He Cheated.” I hadn't spent lots of time thinking about it; I can be jealous, but not in that way. And before today, I hadn’t thought that Reed actually would cheat. But I had wondered every now and then how I would handle that scenario. I didn’t have an immediate answer. I decided to see if another mini bottle of bourbon would help with my decision making ability.

Unfortunately, even after that last bottle, I still couldn’t come up with a definitive answer. When I was younger and more innocent (or more naive), I would definitely have declared, “He cheated. It’s over. Period.” Now older and with more mileage (though not necessarily wiser), I didn’t think it was that black and white. And now that the “What If” game had become the “He Did It” game, I was seeing things in very many shades of gray.

If it had been a drunken mistake, I think I could deal with it. Shit happens. And though I had never cheated over the the past 7 years, there had definitely been a few times that if I had had three drinks instead of two (or if I’m honest, 4 drinks instead of 3), I might have given into temptation and answered “yes” to the various propositions I had been offered.

Still though, in this case it was different. Not only had there been apparently multiple meetings (at this point I had to stop playing the “He Did It” game and spend several minutes imagining a glorious fantasy where I manage to rip off Reed’s right arm and beat him death with the bloody stump before hunting down that slut John and repeating the procedure), but there was the lying. 6 months of lying. Could I trust that what he was telling me about John was the truth? Was there more Reed had kept from me? Did they play safe? Jesus, I had been so mad I hadn’t even thought ask if they used condoms. I don’t know if I could ever trust him again. Could I? I got off the sofa and went back to the mini bar to look for more tiny bottles of bourbon to help with these questions, but there weren’t any left..

At this point, I realized it was after 7pm. I thought idly about ordering dinner and did manage another weak smile imaging the look on Reed’s face when his assistant asked him about the room services charges and listed the totals when she went over the credit card statement with him, but I couldn’t eat. And I had too much of my Baptist upbringing still in me to order food just to waste it. Instead, I decided to move on to drinking all the little bottles of scotch from the bar fridge. and staring blankly at a Golden Girls marathon on tv until I eventually fell asleep. Or passed out, if I insisted on accuracy.

The next morning, I opened my eyes actually hoping for a hangover, hoping for a pounding in my head to replace the anger, questions, and fear circling inside, but no luck. In fact, I had woken up disgustingly early and without even the slightest headache. I sighed and got up and dressed. It was only 8am or so, but the walls of the hotel room were starting to close in on me, so I decided to go walking in the quarter. I wasn’t hungry (“Maybe there was upside to all of this, ” I thought. I had heard of the “Divorce Diet” and had wanted to take off a few pounds for a while. . I mean, it’s almost worth having your life ruined if it means fitting back into a 33” waist pair of jeans, right?), but I did need coffee.

Clutching my coffee, I walked up and down the quarter, from Canal St. to Esplanade Ave., from Rampart St. to the Mississippi. Around noon or so, I tired of coffee and walking, and decided I was ready for drinking and sitting, so I ducked into one of the convenience stores that dot the quarter for a pint of bourbon and headed to back the river. It was a gray day, overcast and drizzling by the time I reached the stairs that lead from the Moon Walk down into the murky brown water of the great river.

I have to admit I was almost enjoying the melancholy of it all; walking alone in the rain, heartbroken. I could almost see myself as a character in some movie, but I every time I starting trying to figure out what sad song I wanted on the soundtrack to my life, I would remember that this was much more than the sad sequence in a romantic comedy. I sat in the light rain, staring across the rippling water like the answer to my questions were waiting somewhere on the Westbank, but the only insight I achieved was the realization that I was becoming no wiser, only increasingly wetter and drunker.

I didn’t want to go back to the hotel yet, so I tossed my bottle into the nearest trash can and headed back into the quarter. The Quarter usually empties out during the rain, so I had the narrow streets to myself. I crossed Jackson Square and found myself walking down St. Ann to the gay section. I had spent many happy days and nights here during my single days, and Reed and I still came here for the big holidays like Mardi Gras and Decadence. I sighed. It had only been 24 hours, and I was already sick of thinking about this. I wanted to put off thinking about this, to think about tomorrow or some other day, but I couldn’t stop my racing mind.

By now I was hungry, but still restless. I grabbed a couple of slice of pizza from one of Bourbon’s many pizza/daiquiri shops (I always did think that was the weirdest combination) and walked as I ate. It was early afternoon, by now, and I was in the mood for a little company. I wasn’t ready for close friends, but I did need to spend some time with someone who would be supportive, someone who would try to cheer me up, someone who would agree readily and wholeheartedly with me that Reed was the world’s greatest shithead without trying to make me see his side.. That someone was Charlie, my favorite bartender.

New Orleans’ reputation as a hard partying city is well earned, and I learned early upon my arrival here that among the personal professionals that were considered by its inhabitants to be indispensable, such as primary care doctors, dentists, barbers, accountants, etc., few were as important as having a favorite bartenders.

Bars are everywhere here. Neighborhood bars, strip clubs, martini lounges, private clubs; no matter what your predilection, there is a bar that caters to you. I, after the deprivation of living in the Bible Belt, had readily sampled the bounty of the various gay bars, most of which are in close proximity in the quarter. Making the rounds among them is referred to as “walking the Fruit Loop.”

And there are many gay bars for many tastes: The Pub and the 700 Club for the young, pretty boys and those who like to look at them, Rawhide and the Phoenix for those who like it a bit rough, The Corner Pocket for those who love the go go boys, and a couple who vied for the nickname “God’s Waiting Room” that catered to older gay men. I had at various times patronized them all, but I definitely had favorites, and my favorite of all was The Hardy Hole.

The Hardy Hole was, like Rawhide and Phoenix, officially a leather bear bar, but honestly, unless you ventured into the shadowy recesses of the back room late on a weekend night, it was primarily a neighborhood bar. A place to just hang out and talk. And a huge part of its appeal was the bartenders, at least for me, who never, even in my single days, had wandered into the backroom.

Most of the bartenders had been there for years, and kind of like Sam, Coach, and Woody at Cheers, they always remembered your name, as well as your favorite drink. And while only one or two were hot, at least in a conventional way, unlike the hot bartenders at the more popular and happening bars down the street, they always had time to talk, especially if you were feeling down.

Charlie was one of the hot ones; well at least if you liked tall, dark, prematurely gray Latino daddies with bulging biceps and an eye patch (trust me….on Charlie, the eye patch only added to his hotness, giving him a rakish, pirate like air). He had moved to New Orleans about the same time I had, and we had hit it off. He had listened sympathetically to my various ‘woe is me tales” through the years, given me romance advice, and had put my drunk ass in a many cabs when it was time for me to go home. I hadn’t seen him nearly as much in the years since I was with Reed. The Hardy Hole was, to put it mildly, not Reed’s kind of place.

I took him there on an early date for a nightcap after dinner. The bar was just down the street from my apartment and conveniently located for “one last drink”. On the steps of the admittedly seedy looking entrance he looked at the sign.

“The Hardy Hole?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s a blacksmith reference. You know how popular blacksmith stuff is here because of Jean Lafitte. Like Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop, the flame and forge at Cafe Lafitte's.”

“What is a hardy hole then?”

“Ummm” I hesitated. “Well, it’s part of an anvil.”

“Part of an anvil? Anvils have parts? I thought they were just metal blocks.”

“Well….yes, but they have holes in them; they’re called hardy holes.”

“What are they for?”

“Ummm….” I stuttered, buying some time as my face reddened. “You stick tools in them.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he said rolling his eyes. He opened the door, “Let’s get this over with.”

We had stayed for only one drink. It had been busy, much busier than I had anticipated, and the action hadn’t been confined to only the back room. A couple beside us at the bar had decided to take their relationship to the next level right then and there, and the patron on the other side was wearing nothing but boots and a jock strap. Reed was very uncomfortable, and I judged it wise to get him out of there as soon as possible.

After that, he refused to go, and I could tell he didn’t like me going. So, I curtailed my visits. I would go when I had friends in town who wanted to bar hop through the quarter, pop in during the big festivals like Mardi Gras and Decadence, and occasionally stop by for a beer before going home if I was working on a project near the quarter. Even with my curtailed visits, I had still maintained my friendship with Charlie, mainly through Facebook these days, and I had been thrilled watching his rise from bartender to manager to owner.

Drenched, I pulled open the door to the bar and was hit by a wave of nostalgia. Even through the fog of pain that surrounded me, I got a sense of comfort. It had been over seven years, but how many times had a come here to cry on Charlie’s shoulder over some guy who had done me wrong. Charlie was actually working behind the bar that day, and he glanced up as I walked in. Catching a glimpse of my face, the smile that had automatically lit his face faded.

“Oh shit” he said. “What happened?”

With the rain and general dreariness of the day, the bar was empty except for Charlie behind the bar and a young bearded guy sitting by the bar. Within seconds of entering, I was blubbering like a twelve year old girl who had just found out about One Direction’s breakup. .

Charlie called in bartender to cover for him, and soon I was seated on a stool between Charlie and the cub. We were soon shooting our way through a bottle of Maker's Mark as they consoled me.

“He’s an idiot,” the young guy said, leaning toward me. . “You’re so hot. I’d never cheat on you.”

“He’s right,” Charlie whispered in my ear, wrapping his arms around me. I slumped back against him, letting his broad chest support me. “Reed is a fucking idiot.”

Many hours later, I opened my eyes, or at least tried to. What hangover I had avoided yesterday was here this morning and had brought reinforcements. Everything ached, including my eyelids, so I shut them and lay there praying for the world to end. Where was I? I decided I didn’t care, just as long as Death could find me. A sound and movement beside me worked through the pounding in my brain. I wasn’t alone. “Oh shit,” I thought, right before I felt darkness overtake me.

After a few more hours of sleep, I came to again. This time the agony in my head, though still soul destroying, was bearable, just. Moving extremely slowly and carefully, I opened my eyes and turned my head, praying the that the sound of someone else in bed with me was just a dream. Alas, that was not the case.

When I finally managed to look beside me, I wasn’t sure what (or more properly who) I would see. I remembered walking into The Hardy Hole, I remembered pouring my heart out to Charlie and a friendly cub, and I remembered bourbon shots. After that it got hazy. I had plenty of these episodes when I was young and single...waking up with someone after a night out, so it wasn’t a completely new experience.

What I wasn’t expecting was see someone so young. Oh God, it was the 24? 25? 26? (please dear God let it be 26) year old cub I had met yesterday at the bar. His big brown eyes were open and he was smiling at me.

“Hi,” he said. “Good morning.”

“Hey” I tried to say. It came out as a groan. A painful groan.

“Last night was wild, right?” He giggled. Oh Jesus, he was a giggler. I’m not sure, but I think I may have t-shirts older than him.

“Wild,” I agreed, using every ounce of strength in me to raise my torso to a sitting position. He looked at me expectantly, and I searched my battered brain desperately trying to remember his name. Ryan? Brian? Fred, I suddenly remembered. His name was Fred. “Um, Fred,” he looked at me and smiled. Thank God, his name WAS Fred.

“Why don’t you call room service and order us some coffee...and some ibuprofen….and anything else you want. I need to go….ummm. freshen up.”

I started to get up, but paused when I realized I was naked under the sheet. I looked frantically around the room trying to locate my underwear. I finally found my briefs. They were hanging from the ceiling fan. Shit. Oh well, why be modest at this juncture, I thought, staggering naked from the bed to the bathroom.

“What’s the room number,” he said, looking up from the phone.

“612.”

“Thanks. And be the way, my name is actually Frank.” Fuck, I thought.

After what seemed like a journey of a thousand miles I made it to the bathroom just in time to be violently ill. Though honestly at the rate the day was going so far, actually making to the bathroom before puking seemed like a major win. Laying there on the floor of the bathroom of my suite at the Ritz-Carlton, I tried to process the events of the past few days, but honestly all I could think of was how cool the marble tile was against my cheek. That is until I happened to glance over at the huge walk in shower and notice the used condom on its floor. Actually make that the multiple used condoms on its floor. Not to mention the sea of empty mini liquor bottles from the minibar. That’s when the memories of last night came flooding back.

Well, I thought, laying there, at least I now know for sure that the shower could comfortably hold two people with room to spare. In fact, I now knew it could hold three people with room to spare. Flashes of consciousness kept coming as I remembered Fred, shit, Frank, and Charlie and I in various combinations. Oh well, I thought, I guess I can now cross “doing a three way” off my bucket list. I hadn’t managed before Reed, and as I had no interest in dabbling in an open marriage, I figured it would have to live in the realm of fantasy for me. I guess the world works in mysterious ways.

I eventually managed to stand and, after pausing a minute to see if any more of last night’s attempt to drink All The Bourbon In The World was going to come back up, I staggered over to the sink to brush my teeth and splash some water in my face. I avoided looking in the mirror; I had a pretty good idea of what I looked like: 10 miles of bad road. I had no desire to confirm it.

I snagged a towel to hide my nakedness and walked back into the room. The food had come, but more importantly, the coffee and painkillers. I poured myself a cup, took a couple of pills, and sat as far from the food as possible. The smell of pancakes was making me even sicker.

I looked over at Frank and had to at least try smile. He was wrapped in a terry cloth robe, and his hair was sticking out all over. He was inhaling pancakes and bacon like he had never eaten, though his sturdy frame indicated that he did, in fact, enjoy sustenance on a very regular basis. He sensed he looking at him and turned to smile at me, his teeth very white against his dark brown beard.

“I love breakfast,” he said, snagging another piece of bacon. “Do you want some? I ordered plenty.”

My response was a visible shudder. He giggled again. “Guess you’re not a morning person.”

“Good guess,” I said. The coffee was beginning to make me feel, if not quite human, at least like one of the higher primates. “Look, about last night…”

He interrupted me. “Dude, it’s cool. You just got out of a relationship.” I started to speak; he stopped me with a gesture. “Let me finish. I mean I really dig you, and I’d totally like to date you, but c’est la vie.” He shrugged. “Anyway, last night was major. You and Charlie….wow! I was in cub Heaven.”

I blushed so hard it made my head ache even more. Seeing me turn red, he giggled again. “Too bad Charlie had to leave. We could have gone for round two….No, that’s not right. Round six?” He giggled again. Thank Heavens for small favors; at least I didn’t have to face Charlie, too, this morning. I’m not sure I could have handled that.

Leaving him to finish breakfast, I went to shower. Frank offered to scrub my back, but I declined it. Contributing to the delinquency of a 25 year old while I was drunk, I could forgive myself. Doing it while sober (or at least mostly sober), no.

Leaning down to pick up used condoms while hungover was definitely the worst thing I have ever experienced. But eventually, the shower floor was clear, and the hot water worked miracles. In fact, remembering what I had done in that shower only hours earlier had me, for a split second, considering taking Frank up on his offer.

I managed, for once, to curb my poor impulse control. Clean and wrapped in another robe that I hadn’t noticed earlier, I finally emerged from the bathroom.

Frank was finished eating. In fact, he was dressed and ready to head out. He had obviously waited to say goodbye, which I found endearing. For a moment, I wished circumstances were different and almost made plans to see him again, but I knew that was too selfish. Still, I gladly gave him the goodbye kiss he asked for, and when he asked for my number I gave it to him, too. I wasn’t expecting to hear from him again; but I had to admit he was a sweet boy. And a talented one.

After he left, I poured more coffee and settled on the sofa to think. Really think this time. Obviously wallowing in self pity (and bourbon, the voice in my head said…...don’t forget all the bourbon you drank) wasn’t going to be the ideal way to handle this break up. Well, I thought, realizing that I did consider Reed and I as having broken up, not just “having issues.” At least that one decision. I am through. Now what.

Well, I now knew I didn’t want a post-breakup slut period. I didn’t really regret last night. Though I had to admit I had lost quite a bit of moral high ground by jumping into bed with someone (okay, two someones) so quickly after leaving Reed. Sure, technically we had broken up, but still, my behavior had been far from classy. Moreover, I knew I didn’t want a series of one night stands. Last night’s acrobatics had been exciting, but I now knew what making love felt like when there was genuine love; that’s what I wanted again.

I needed to leave New Orleans, I realized. Ben and his partner would let me stay for as long as I needed, but I was certain the temptation to distract myself with bars and boys would be too strong to overcome. Too many temptations, period, in this city. Plus, it held too many memories, mainly good ones, of me and Reed.

So where to? I didn’t have access unlimited resources. Reed and I had never made either our personal or our business relationships formal, legal ones. Much like not my name not being on the deed to the house, I wasn’t officially his business partner. I had no legal right to the house off St. Charles or any of his financial assets acquired during our relationship.

Aside from various retirement accounts and some C.D.s, I had about $10,000 in the bank. Luckily I didn’t have a lot of bills. My credit cards were all paid off, and I didn’t have a car note. I knew Reed would let me stay on the company health plan, at least until I settled somewhere (I was furious at him, but knew he wasn’t a complete asshole). New York might be good, I thought.

I knew my friend Patrick, an old college friend, would be happy to let me camp out in his guest room for a while. And he had lots of connections from his 15 years in the city; I was confident him could help me find a job, even if was something just to get by for a while. If I didn’t have to immediately spend it on housing, my tiny nest egg would last for a while.

I finally found my dead phone and plugged it in to charge while I dressed and straightened the room a bit. I didn’t want the maids to think that I had hosted some sort of debauched orgy. It took a while, but I was certain I finally found all of the used condoms and empty bottles. I don’t remember this part, but we must have stopped somewhere and bought an economy pack.

I spent the rest of the morning drinking coffee and looking up flights to NYC. After a couple of hours, I judged the phone to be fully charged and turned it on. I was immediately assaulted by a series of beeps alerting me to text messages and missed calls, most from Reed. Lots of “Please call me” and “Where are you? I’m worried” interspersed with the occasional “I am so sorry.” I deleted the thread.

I saw a couple from Ben. I wasn’t quite ready to talk to him in person. I think I was afraid I’d find out that he and his partner had known about Reed and John. Instead I composed a brief email, telling him that Reed and I were finished, that I was fine, that any inquiries about our current project were to go to Reed, and that I’d be in touch when I got settled. I called Patrick, getting his voicemail. I told him to call me, stressing the importance. I wanted to make sure I could come, and I wanted make the necessary travel arrangements as soon as possible.

With the important things, out of the way, I turned to dealing with my stepmother. She had married my father about 15 years ago, and while our relationship was cordial, we weren’t exactly close. We talked on major holidays when I hadn’t come home to visit, on birthdays, etc., but she didn’t call just to chat. So I was surprised to see a series of missed calls from Ruby. I figured she was calling to plan my dad’s next birthday, a big one, his 80th. The last time I saw, a couple of months earlier, he was in great shape, so I wasn’t prepared for what she had to tell me.

“Oh thank goodness, Brandon,” Ruby said after I had identified myself. “I’m very worried about your father. He just doesn’t seem like himself.”

“Anything in particular?” I humored her, not yet worried.

“Well, he’s not eating. He’s quit his morning visit to town. He’s dizzy all the time; in fact, he fell last week. Thank goodness it was in the den on the carpet.”

My smugness vanished. “I’ll head right up.” I looked at my watch, or tried to. I was so used to it being there that I hadn’t stopped expecting to see it. I searched frantically around the room looking for a clock.

“It’s 10 o’clock. I can be there around three. Is his doctor still Dr. Harris?” She answered in the affirmative. “Good, I’ll call and make an appointment on the way.”

I then called Dad to talk to him myself. I was hoping that after talking to him, I would be convinced that Ruby was making a mountain out of a molehill. That didn’t happen. He was distracted and almost incoherent. I had the horrible feeling he wasn’t exactly sure who he was talking to.

I quickly packed and prepared to leave. After settling the bill with a grateful thought that I didn’t have to see the look of judgement on the face of the poor maid who had to change those sheets and scrub the shower (I left an enormous tip), I asked for a stamped envelope, put the American Express in it with a brief note and mailed it to Reed’s office. I then headed for home.

On the way, Patrick called. He was shocked when I told him about Reed, but concern for my father, not my failed relationship, was foremost on my mind. Patrick agreed, as I knew he would, that I could come start over in his guest room. “Call me when you have everything sorted out with your father. I’ll start making some inquiries for you….professional and personal.”

“Patrick,” I said “Professional only, I’ll take care of personal.”

“If you insist,” he said. “All joking aside, I’ll put some job feelers out for you. I know a couple of designers. Email me a resume when you get the chance. And Brandon, don’t worry. I’m sure everything will be okay with your dad.”

I also manned up and called Ben. I was so relieved when he seemed genuinely shocked when I told him about John and Reed.

“That whore!” he exclaimed.

“Which one?” I asked.

“Point taken. I meant John. I knew he was a piece of work. And I had a bad feeling he was trying to sink his claws in Reed, but quite frankly I credited Reed with better sense, not to mention better taste.”

“Well, what’s done in done. Anyway, once I get Dad to the doctor and find out what’s going on, I’ll let you know. For the foreseeable future, though I’ll be there. I’ll email you the address and the landline number when I get there. Take care.”

“You, too. I’ll keep you in my prayers.” He must have read something in my lingering silence. “Yes, I pray, asshole,” he said, laughing. I laughed with him and hung up. That was the last laugh I had for a long time.