Love in Strange Times

By Emery C. Walters

Pandemic. Plague. Call it what you will, but it spelled stay-at-home isolation for Leo and his neighbors. Except the new neighbor. Interesting looking but probably not gay and already hauled off to the hospital. That’s how Leo ended up with his cat, and mail, and food packages. A caretaker now, and he doesn’t even know the guy.

A major storm blows up, and people start piling in: the sick neighbor’s grandson and some other kid. The old lady neighbor with a tree through her roof and her long-lost flame. So much for social distancing, particularly when sex gets into the act.

Except for poor Leo. Odd man out. Until they decide to spring the sick guy from the hospital. What could possibly go wrong?

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Oct 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646566310

Emery C. Walters

Emery C. Walters was born Carol Forde, a name he soon knew didn’t fit the boy he was inside. Transition was unknown back then, so he married and then bore and raised four children. When his youngest child, his gay son, left home, Emery told Carol that she had to step aside, and he fully transitioned from female to male in 2001.

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Chapter 1: Desperation

This is so not the best way to outlast a plague, Leo thought, shoving the last bit of his Twix bar into his mouth. There must be better ways to deal with anxiety. Humpf. Big strong man like me, no way should I even know what the stupid word means. How many men do you know who have panic attacks? Hmmm? Yeah, thought so. Just me. Didn’t I buy two of these? Why bother risking a trip to the store in the first place if you’re not going to stock up?

Leo kept muttering as he pushed himself out of his old Barca Lounger, tripping over the cat he was watching for his new neighbor. It was against his will, but there hadn’t been anyone else to do it. Poor schmuck had just moved in a week ago. Leo had been watching him out the window, watering his part of the lawn, getting his mail. He had seemed so happy and then, next thing you know, he’s being taken away in an ambulance.

Tough for him, Mrs. Minerva, Leo’s other neighbor, had piped up from her stoop, dressed in an old ratty maroon bathroom, the old bat.

I hope you weren’t close to him. She had waggled bushy gray eyebrows at him. Leo shivered, remembering this. He was no spring chicken, himself, but Mrs. M. could easily be his mother, or, God forbid, his grandmother.

He had watched her adjust her mask, glasses and hair, (primping? For whom, him?) before going back inside her condo. It was the most he’d seen of her in a month. She had her food delivered, and the man even put the box inside her door for her. He wondered how much she tipped him, or, if she tipped him at all. At least he wouldn’t want to take it out in trade as they used to say in the bad old days, although, he himself, wouldn’t have been above it. That delivery man was cute!

Or maybe he was just getting desperate. Am I getting desperate, cat? he asked, nodding as he realized how desperate he was just for someone to talk to, let alone, well…maybe the neighbor was straight. Weren’t most of them?

He had a cat to feed. He still went to the grocery store himself, anxiety or not; he got a kick out of going to the Safeway, whether it was or not with this damn plague thing going on. He felt like he was living in a Stephen King novel, whereas he’d rather be living in an Armistead Maupin one. What a great writer that man was!

Still, if you couldn’t afford to live in San Francisco anymore, believe it or not, Hawaii wasn’t too shabby. Expensive, yes, but not nearly as much as Nob Hill. Of course, he was retired now too, might as well be, he couldn’t have done his job from home. In San Fran he’d had his own business, but sold out just before the shit hit the fan. Oh well, timing was never perfect, but it could have been a lot worse too. He’d bought the condo here and had been here now longer than anyone else, except for Mrs. Minerva. She wasn’t a bad neighbor, but she wasn’t exactly gay either. Nor a man.

He dumped kibbles into the cat’s dish, torn between kicking him (which he knew he would never do, but hell yes, he thought about it, to be honest), and hugging the fuzzy thing. Which he would never do either. He was far too prissy for that. That thing would