Last Dance with Mary Jane

By John Goode

Peter was devastated when he lost his love, Shayne, in a car crash. Though he knows nothing will bring Shayne back, Peter takes solace in listening to Shayne’s voice mail, just to hear his voice one last time. He’s not prepared when one night, Shayne answers the phone.

A Bittersweet Dreams title: It's an unfortunate truth: love doesn't always conquer all. Regardless of its strength, sometimes fate intervenes, tragedy strikes, or forces conspire against it. These stories of romance do not offer a traditional happy ending, but the strong and enduring love will still touch your heart and maybe move you to tears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
• Release date: Apr 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781632169280

John Goode

John Goode is fifty years old and was found in his floating crib by a strange man… wait, no that’s Baby Yoda. I am a cat that gets constantly screamed at by a blond woman while I’m trying to eat… wait, no, not me. I am inevitable, nope. I am Iron Man? More no. I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way? I can’t pull that dress off. Okay, I am and shall always be your friend. Sigh, I think I stole that from somewhere. Let me try again. WHEN I WAS A YOUNG WARTHOG! Too much? I agree. Okay, how about a little Fosse, Fosse, Fossee, a little Martha Graham, Martha Graham, Twyla, Twyla, Twyla and then some Michael Kidd, Michael… I lost you, huh? Well whoever he is, I can assure you he isn’t a black cat that wears glasses. Okay, how about this? He is this guy who lives in this place and writes stuff he hopes you read. Twitter: @fosterhigh Facebook: www.facebook.com/TalesFromFosterHigh

Book preview

This is for Shayne, who dressed out next to me in gym

all through junior high and made me gay.

I blame it all on him.

Life is not fair. No one gets out alive.

—Peter David

Last Dance with Mary Jane

FATE IS a bitch.

I don’t use that word a lot because it’s demeaning to women and is generally used when men are threatened by strong women. That’s not the case in point. I said Fate is a bitch, and that’s exactly what I meant. She’s a cruel and petty woman who enjoys nothing more than making people’s lives miserable. I could name half a million reasons why I believe this, but unless you’re that woman in Missouri who won the lottery twice, you know firsthand how nasty an entity she can be.

It’s important to point out that I’m talking about Fate and not God. If God has a plan for all of us, Fate is simply the lackey executing the plan. I’m pretty sure, if there is a grand plan, the details are left to her.

And it’s the details that fuck you.

Fate makes people late to work by screwing with traffic lights. She makes sure you meet the person of your dreams right after they start dating your best friend. She makes sure you lose your job just as rent is due.

She also causes cars to crash.

DO YOU believe that? my therapist asked me after a rather pregnant pause. Do you believe that Fate caused Shayne’s car to crash?

Dr. Morta was an old-school shrink. She believed patients should lie back on a couch and talk about their parents and crap while she scribbled on a pad of paper. Her face was ancient, with a road map of lines I was sure led to the Holy Grail, but she still moved with a grace I hadn’t seen in women half her age. Though tiny, she possessed an authority that would have been impressive in people twice her size. People said she was the best grief counselor in the area. I had asked her what made her so great, but all she would ever answer was, I’m good with endings. I assure you, if she wasn’t one of the best therapists money could buy, I wouldn’t have bothered with the whole couch-and-scribble scenario. However, the fact was, I was crazy, and I couldn’t keep living with the misery in my heart.

I don’t know anymore, I said with a sigh. I was lying, and she knew it.

Even though I couldn’t see her, the soft rustle of pages and creak of a chair informed me she had closed the notebook and leaned toward me.

Peter. Her voice was sad and empathetic, a skill learned after years of nodding and telling people it was going to be okay. I know you’re still carrying a lot of anger about Shayne’s death, but you do know God doesn’t cause cars to crash, right?

I sat up and turned to look at her. I didn’t say God, did I? I said Fate’s a bitch, and she does make cars crash. Fate makes all sorts of things happen, and unlike God, no one goes to church on Sundays to thank her for fucking up their life. My face was no doubt red from anger, and I tried to get a grip on my emotions before I started crying again. Shayne made that trip dozens of times without even a flat tire, and all of a sudden he just dies? My voice got louder, and the sane part of my mind distantly realized I was losing it. Whose fucking fault is it, then? Who do I blame for his death, Doc?

Her expression didn’t change one iota as I screamed at her, but I had to believe that inside she was shaking her head sympathetically. Tell me who I blame and I’ll do it! I vaulted off the couch, realizing only after I’d done so that my hands were balled into fists. Tell me who I see about that, and I’ll stop wasting your time!

I loomed over her, but she was immune to my rage, as if I were a small child throwing a tantrum. There were hundreds of people who would have taken a few hesitant steps back from seeing me this mad up close, but this woman, who was at best five feet tall, looked up at me with an expression that just screamed, Are you done yet?

I wasn’t going to get her to fight back, so I sighed and let the anger drain out of me as I fell back onto the couch.

You’re not wasting my time, she answered after a while. You’re grieving the loss of your lover, and what you’re feeling is perfectly normal.

Husband, I said quietly. Why is it straight people have husbands and wives, but gay people are always lovers? I asked rhetorically. It’s offensive. We were together for over fifteen years. He deserves to be called my husband.

Did you ever call him your husband? she asked, opening her notepad again. When he was alive, did you refer to him as your husband?

I had no idea where her question came from, and there was no way I was going to answer it. Are we almost done here? I asked, looking at my watch.

"Your session is