Heavens to Betsy! I had to dust off my keyboard this morning, before wiping away the shame at the thought of calling myself a “writer.” I must implore you to forgive me for my flaccid fingertips. If there was a little blue pill I could take to heal my creative ails, I promise I would.

I am writing to you now (barely) from my dining room table at the Fox Den. Sipping a delicious cup of dark roast, I am wrapped in a cozy L.L Bean sweater I bought 40% off. Outside on this November day, the sky is a familiar grey. Inside the apartment is quiet, apart from the slumbering sounds of Bow, formerly known as my “younger boyfriend.”

At this moment, I can tell you with casual warmth, I have been off the market for nine months and eight days. I can also tell you who is counting: me.

It feels like decades ago, that I would spend the evenings scrolling through endless faces of strange men to encounter. Now, I pass the time on my phone each night, sending countless messages to one man asking, “Why aren’t you home yet?”

I know from my socials, it may appear this relationship has been one much-liked Instagram photo after the next, and it has. However, that is not to say, there have been many deleted What’s App messages along the way.

Bow and I celebrated the occasion for our six-month plus one-day anniversary at a fancy Italian restaurant downtown. Dressed to the nines, we checked in for our 3:00 PM reservation for Happy Hour.

Taking a seat on the picturesque patio next to an Italian marble statue with a trickling waterfall, the afternoon sun casts a radiant glow on our white tablecloth.

“This place is so nice,” I said to Bow, as the host placed down our menus. “You remembered your gift card, right?”

Placing his hand over his brow, he simultaneously disregarded my question and thanked the wait staff.

When two glasses of complimentary prosecco arrived next, I could not wait to raise a toast.

“Cheers babe,” I said, “to breaking the six-month…”

Before I could say another word, I watched the blood drain from Bow’s face in terror. Beads of nervous sweat racing down his forehead, I noticed his champagne flute begin to shake mid-air. All of a sudden, it felt like a bomb was going to go off.

At that moment, Bow knew what I could no longer deny. From the late night/early morning, we first met, I confessed to him that for 39 years on this planet, I had been subjected to a horrific “six-month curse.” Not once, had I managed to successfully see a relationship last longer than half a year’s time.

In the first few weeks, we were together, he reassured me that I was just being dramatic and had nothing to worry about. But then, as more time passed, and the seasons changed, we both discovered tragically, that there was no curse at all – it was just me! The closer he tried to get to my heart – the faster I ran! Literally.

In month five, I was setting world records sprinting out of gay bars on Davie Street one Friday night after the next. I swear, other gays would look at me on the dancefloor and then check the time, thinking “When is Rugged going to run?” While it is true, that I am a fan of an occasional dramatic entrance and exit; I pause when one begins to build a reputation for it.

My glass still raised in the air; I pivoted.

“Cheers to making it… Facebook official,” I said loud and proud.

“Cheers honey,” Bow smiled.

As our glasses clinked there was no explosion, not one piece of shattered glass.

Well, wouldn’t you know! After several glasses of happy hour pink wine, one bowl of mixed olives, and a Caesar salad, we failed to notice the flashing blue and red lights outside. As we paid the bill and stood up to leave, the restaurant manager calmly escorted us through the kitchen and out the back door.

Standing in the alley, we wondered if this was some kind of special VIP treatment.

“Gentlemen,” the manager said sternly, “please leave now, quickly. There is a bomb threat across the street, and they have shut down the entire block.”

“Are we on a movie set?” I asked Bow, nearly fumbling over my brown wing tips.

“No Rugged,” he took my arm, “now let’s leave before we do blow up.”

Okay, first I want to start by thanking everyone for their direct messages regarding my younger boyfriend. To clear up any confusion, yes, he is real – and no, I did not make him up. While I truly appreciate your concern about the state of my mental faculties, I can assure you I have never felt so rational before.

Also, please stop sending me invites for upcoming events as part of “Men’s Mental Health Month.” I cannot RSVP because I am very busy dating a non-fictional man who is very much real.

Now, we can get down to business. Based purely on superstition, I have decided not to share my 30-year-old partner’s name with you until we have officially been intertwined for six months plus one day. For now, he shall be Nameless. I have also notified Facebook that my relationship status will remain single until August 16th, 2024, at 12:01am.

I know we haven’t discussed this yet; however, I want you to know that I did not enter this partnership lightly. While it is true, in years past, I have offered my hand in marriage to any man who made direct eye contact with me – this time is different.

I have always understood that with great age comes, great responsibility. And so, being the “Older Boyfriend” was by no means a role I intended to take lightly.

When Nameless first asked of me monogamy, I must admit, I was unsure at first, I was up to the task.

CUT TO:

INT. The Fox Den – Bedroom – Past Reasonable Bedtime

Lying in bed, under the curtained glow from the streetlight, NAMELESS turns over to RUGGED FOX and asks him a very important question.

NAMELESS
Will you be with me and no one else?

RUGGED FOX
I am unsure I am up to the task.

Ill-timed, Rugged Fox’s smart phone starts pinging with the familiar sound of Grindr notifications.

NAMELESS
Babe, what is that?

RUGGED FOX
(scrambling to silence his phone and feigning cluelessness)
What is what babe? 

And so it was that I deleted Grindr for the 347th time.

Naturally, as soon as I was no longer a single man, I made a commitment to myself to be the best “Older Boyfriend” in the province of British Columbia. I made a vow never to form the sentences, “I am tired” and “It is late,” or ask the question, “can we go home yet?” I also contacted the bank and increased my credit card limit.

This of course, worked out very well for approximately seventeen days until I had a major breakdown in a private karaoke room. Physically exhausted after shutting down The Cross Swords on Davie Street nearly every night for two weeks - and utterly broke given the high cost of leaving the apartment, I could not sustain my role as “Older Boyfriend” anymore.

FADE IN:

INT. Private Karaoke Room – Late on a Weeknight

An exhausted and broke Rugged Fox finds himself on the edge of tears, as Nameless cues up “Stars are Blind” by Paris Hilton on the karaoke machine.

NAMELESS
(singing)
I don’t mind spending some time… just hanging here with you.

RUGGED FOX
(bursting into tears)
I don’t think I have what it takes, apart from age, to be your older boyfriend anymore!

NAMELESS
(continuing to sing)
Cause I don’t find too many guys… that treat me like you do.

Endeared with Nameless’ unwavering commitment to song, Rugged Fox manages to get himself together in time for the chorus.

NAMELESS & RUGGED FOX
(in unison)
If you show me real love baby, I’ll show you mine!  

Now, I would love to stay and chat, but after my recent psychotic break, Nameless suggested we go to a gay men’s support group tonight. Apparently, it is part of “Men’s Mental Health Month.” At least, I RSVP’d with a plus one.

There is a man in my bed. And I know his first name.

Sweet Meryl, could it be that for the second time in 15 years on the Coast, Rugged Fox is off the market? More troubling and back in the first person, if I am no longer a certified singleton, is my writing career over?

Okay, I know you want to hear all the details. However, we must proceed with caution. We do not want to jinx this! Even though it has been years, the last thing I want is a repeat of the real-life disaster that turned out to be Theodore J. Nelson. Give a man a starring role on your website, and it is only a matter of time until you scroll down to the part where he breaks your heart.

How did we meet? The answer to this question depends on the audience. If you are my Uncle Curt in Alberta, I will tell you that we met at the Vancouver Gun Range in Port Coquitlam (confusedly). If you are Mama and Papa Fox, I will tell you that we met on the ferry over to Granville Island - at sunset. And if you are my gay friend Dom, I will show you the exchange of messages that led him to my front door one fateful night/morning at 4:48 AM.

What is he like? I must abhor us to slow down with this incessant line of questioning! Must I remind you about the six-month curse? I don’t know what kind of cruel trick this universe has been playing on me; but I have yet to experience a relationship that lasts longer than half a year. It is true! Even my first relationship with Frederick Davenport (who crushed my heart as if it were a gin and tonic at happy hour) lasted five months and twenty-nine days.

In full disclosure, looking back, I was committed in an opposite sex relationship for nearly a year. However, that felt like an eternity for us both. Even though she is now married with children, to this day, I still send an apology letter each year with the kids’ birthday cards.

Okay! Fine, top of my glass if you must. I am going to need a bigger splash than that.

I will tell you this much, he is younger. (Not in the creepy/illegal sense! Why do I always feel the need to clarify that?) Mere weeks after we came together for the first time, I sat next to him at dinner while he blew out the candles on his 30th birthday cake. Oh, me oh my! I have said this before and I will say it again: if you are a balding ginger with a slight pudge and fledgling website on the cusp of his 39th birthday, it is essential you find yourself a younger man.

Did I ask him to marry me? No, of course not! I have so many projects on the go, the last thing I need is People magazine calling about wedding plans.  Did I tell him about my infatuation with The Stud across the back lane? One day I will. Has he asked me multiple times why I keep looking out the window? Maybe.

Darn it! He just woke up and asked me to accompany him to a bite to eat. As a gay man, is it ever possible to tire of brunch? I don’t think so.

Sweet Meryl! What has it been, like ten thousand years since we last caught up? Looking down at this keyboard, I must admit feeling a touch lost. I would like to tell you that I disappeared into a wellness retreat, lost twenty pounds, and achieved sobriety; but you and I both know that is a story for another website.

Okay, let’s be kind and rewind to last September. I was on fire! And not in the sense that I needed antibiotics. Working two jobs and writing the script for a short musical comedy, I felt like the doors were finally starting to open in this town. Not to mention my own, every single night, to a new gentleman caller. More on that later.

Well, what do you know? Out of everything I could contract, a film deal - a boyfriend, I woke up in October with an awful case of conjunctivitis. For the record, I like pink wine, not pink eye. I will spare you the details and selfies. After one trip to the emergency department at St. Paul’s Hospital, I ended up back in quarantine.

“Too soon!” I texted Mama and Papa Fox. “Too soon!”

In November, it took days before I could shake the feeling of being wildly contagious. Easing myself back into the dating game, I made an active effort to order in less and eat out more. It was not long before I was going on dates in the outside world. One night, I met a very sweet man for tea in a coffeeshop. Can you believe it? The only major problem was that his life was together and mine was not.

After a brief flicker of light, the eternal darkness of December set in. Each year I find Christmas time to be a particular shade of blue. This past holiday season was less baby and more navy. Drinking more wine than usual, I felt like I was starting to burn the candle out at both ends. And then I did. Falling into a deep depression, I felt lonely, miserable, and under-dressed.

After weeks of wallowing, come January, I knew I had to snap out of it. And so, I made some serious new years resolutions. Like an adult, I accepted a line of credit and resolved to buy new bed, mattress, and couch. Just because my life was a hot mess didn’t mean the Fox Den had to be. I also wrote a resignation letter and sought out to change my entire career path once again.

And then, just like that, on February 1st at 4:48 AM, I met someone.

“He’s gone,” I said to myself last night, looking yonder across the back lane. Then taking a sip of red wine, I wiped a single tear from my eye, and closed the curtains.

Returning to my couch, I reached for the remote and clicked on Rodger’s & Hammerstein’s “The Sound of Music.” Losing myself on an Austrian hillside, I felt a brief reprieve from sadness, until the Von Trapp children started singing their song.

“So long,” I sang along, sobbing.

“Farewell,” I choked on my next gulp of wine.

“Auf wiedershen,” I thought about my attractive German friend Felix. Guten Tag Felix.

“Goodnight,” I wailed.

Pandemic Pete has moved.

Yesterday morning, I could not help but notice a flurry of activity in his apartment as I waited for the coffee maker to beep. At first, I thought he was celebrating American Thanksgiving because it was really a family affair. In the kitchen, his mom puttered while his sibling’s brought life to a typically quiet living room.

“I have never met the family before,” I poured a cup of dark roast and started a conversation with myself. “This is truly turning out to be quite a nice day.”

Then, at approximately 11:03am everything changed.

At first, I didn’t think much of it when the moving truck arrived. With rent prices soaring and the average cost of wine in a restaurant nearing $10,000 a glass, the end of the month is always a busy time in downtown Vancouver.

“Wait, where are they taking his plants?” I felt my mood shift and blood pressure rise.

If I can tell you one thing about Pandemic Pete I know for certain, he is an excellent gardener. His blinds are always open because his entire apartment is filled with beautiful plants. For the last three years, I have watched him tend to them every Sunday afternoon with loving care.

He even inspired me to test out my own green thumb! As you know, ever since 2014, I have been hesitant about plant caretaking. That was the year, of course, I was so busy managing The Meatball Hut, I failed to notice the plant I had been watering was fake. It was then, I reasoned I should stick to nursing wine; however, even that still remains a challenge.

Well, wouldn’t you know it, at the time of this writing I have half-a-dozen plant friends currently in residence. The mood has been a bit tense, as of late, as two of them are on life support. I may or may not have, unknowingly, drowned them. Last month, when Mama Fox was in town for the weekend, she was none too happy with me. At 38-years-old, I received a scolding about how plants are not nearly as thirsty as me.

As I watched his apartment empty, I could not bear to look any longer. At sunset, he shut the blinds for the first, and last time.

It is true, we first laid eyes on each other in March 2020 cheering for the front-line workers. During the tumultuous lockdowns that followed, his steadfast routine served as anchor for me. While most days, I woke up on the living room floor, he sat working from his kitchen table. And while yes, it is true, as restrictions eased, my attention turned towards apartments elsewhere.

That said, I will never forget the time we never spent together.

Goodbye Pete, or whatever your name actually is.

Last time on Rugged Fox… Moving to Shipyard for a pink nightcap, Rugged locks himself in a washroom stall after running into a pack of young suburban gays. Feeling old and conservative, the balding Fox questions the reflection looking back at him in the mirror.   

There comes a time in every gay man’s life when he has to part ways with his highly attractive cousins.

Outside Shipyard, I gave Drum and Heller each a prolific hug before saying goodbye.

“I am going to miss you both,” I said, tipping my non-existent cap. “And your sure we’re related?”

Smiling, I watched the two of them hop into an Uber, before heading to the sea bus.

As I set sail from the North Shore, I felt a welcome sense of relief to return to a familiar skyline. Looking out at the city lights, I closed my eyes, and felt my mind begin to drift.

“When will I see you again?” Mr. Serious asked, outside the front door of a restaurant.

“This was nice, but I don’t think it’s going to work.” I replied, honestly.

“I will make it work,” he asserted, pulling me in for a kiss.

When the rain arrived last winter, I resolved to start dating again. It had been over a year since Theodore J. Nelson moved from a star in my inbox to the trash can. And so, I agreed to a lunch date at a popular Vietnamese restaurant in Mount Pleasant.

“So, what do you do?” I asked, taking a bite into a delicious crispy spring roll.

“I work in a very serious position,” he replied.

By the time our cheque dropped, it was clear all we shared in common, was a lack of hair on our heads and companionship in our lives. Apart from that, we couldn’t have been anymore different. We worked opposite schedules, lived on different sides of Main Street, and had very different tastes in film.

You can understand why, I found myself somewhat confused, on our first date, we were now kissing.

“I will make it work,” he stated firmly again.  

There was no question this man was a total top, which made me regret what I ate for lunch.

And then, well, wouldn’t you know it? He kept his word.

As the sky faded into black and the weeks passed, we turned into “boyfriends.” From East to West Vancouver, we ate out, ordered in, and twice cooked. The only trouble was, we weren’t a match, and neither of us was willing to be the first to admit it.

When the spring arrived and the sunshine returned, our time together ended in the same setting it started. After an embarrassingly loud argument over Lebanese cuisine and a rush for the bill, the two of us stood outside the front door of a restaurant, once again.

“So, I guess this is it?” he asked, looking down at the sidewalk.

“I think this is the page where our story ends,” I replied.

“I did make it work though,” his eyes locked into mine.

“You…”

---

“Excuse me sir, sir, sir!” A strange voice grew louder into focus.

Opening my eyes, I realized I was the only passenger left on the sea bus

“We have arrived. It is time for you to disembark this vessel.”

Tipping my non-existent cap, I thanked the good man for his service, and carried on back to the West End.

Last time on Rugged Fox… Over delicious pasta with his cousins, Rugged recounts his first trip to Daddyland. When the three gentlemen embark on a nightcap, the Fox has no idea what he has in store.

“Reservation?” a young woman asked.

Having closed down Nook, the three of us walked in the front door to Shipyard, a trendy chain restaurant in North Vancouver.

“Seriously?” I replied. Looking down at my watch. It was 11:36pm.

The only sound to break the silence that followed came from the tip of her acrylic nail, tapping the iPad.

“Do you have a waitlist?” I whimpered, tucking my tail between my legs.

Taking a seat on a pleather couch next to an electric fireplace, it occurred to me that one part of this moment was real: nature was calling.

“Gentlemen,” I turned to my cousins Drum and Heller, “If you’ll excuse me, I must find the washroom.”  

Now, there is something you must know. Last year, I made an executive decision never to ask for directions to a restroom again. Especially when in a restaurant. Working as a server, I am shocked by how many hours of my life I have spent directing humans to toilets. Now, whenever I must get up from a table, I pick a direction and commit. To my surprise, 8 out of 10 times, I end up in a storage closet.

Venturing into the depths of Shipyard, I was shocked to see how busy the restaurant was. While top 40 hits crashed down from the speakers, blended drinks sailed out from behind the bar. The wine must have caught up with me; because suddenly it felt like the entire dining room was swaying back and forth. Spotting a washroom sign, I made a b-line.

Having nearly regained my footing, I had no idea I was about to lose my legs.

Stumbling into the washroom, I came to an abrupt halt. Occupying three urinals in front of me were six men in their twenties. Fearing I was seeing double, I did another head count. My math was correct. Mildly shocked, I thought this must be some kind of frat house situation. Surely, only straight men would possess the fearlessness to exhibit such brazenness.

But then I looked down at their shoes.

One high-pitched scream, three “hey girls,” and a “bitch you cray,” confirmed what I did not think possible. These men were not only friends of Dorothy, but they were also best mates with her great grandkids. Before I could think another thought, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Turning around I saw yet another young buck, dressed in the exact same outfit I wore in 2010.

“I haven’t seen you here before Daddy,” he looked at me wantonly. “Woof,” he mouthed.

“AHHH!” I screamed, and then ran.

Barreling forward, I barricaded myself in a stall and locked the door behind me. Surrounded on all fronts by young suburban gays, I felt like I was lost at sea. These men were loud, proud, and had absolutely no sense of discretion when it came to a public washroom.

“Have fun in the closet!” I heard one of them shout, as the parade moved on out.  

When the coast was finally clear, I was able to find some relief. Washing my hands, I looked up in the mirror, and could barely recognize the man staring back at me. He looked tired, conservative, and chock-full of sensibilities. Ugh! As if! This was not a look I had sported before, and certainly not a visual I intended to keep up. Splashing water on my face, I tried to rinse off the judgment I felt seeping from my pores.

Why was I not happier for these young men? Why did I feel instead, like somehow, I missed out?

Returning to the dining room, I found Drum and Heller sitting at a high top.

“What’s the matter cous?” Drum asked, pouring me a glass of pink wine.

“Yeah cous, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” echoed Heller.

“Gentlemen,” I took a sip of wine. “Be careful in these parts. The hour is late, and the men are thirsty.”

Next on Rugged Fox…one bottle of pink wine later, Rugged catches the last sea bus back downtown. As he crosses the water, he cannot help but think about his recent relationships: real and make-believe.

Last time on Rugged Fox… On a busy Friday night, Rugged was in the throes of a delicious dinner at Nook with his cousins Drum and Heller. Popping olives and sipping craft beer, the three men were just about to paddle into a dignified conversation, when Rugged tipped the canoe.

“Seriously! I want to know,” exclaimed Heller. “What is a bathhouse?”

“It’s perfect,” I lifted my nose from a glass of Barbera and nodded to our server.

After taking our dinner conversation in a wildly different direction, I scrambled to peddle back. I managed to delay answering the question as long as I could but now, I had to talk. Like Christine in “The Phantom of the Opera,” I was past the point of no return.

“Cheers gentlemen,” three glasses of wine lifted in the air.

“Come on Rugs,” said Drum, “you can’t just leave us hanging.”

Of all the stories you tell your cousins at dinner, your first trip to the bathhouse is not one of them. The truth is, I would have been way harsher on myself in the moment, if it weren’t for the fact, I didn’t have much else to share. I had just come out of a relationship that carried on three chapters too long. Hence, why I found myself wrapped in nothing but a towel on Davie Street.

“You know this is a family restaurant, I don’t know if this I should…”

“RUGGED!” the two men chimed in unison.

“Okay, okay, okay,” I bit into a piece of toast.

“First off, let’s not call it a bathhouse, because it is by no means a place to get clean. Think of it more like an amusement park, for adult men with no clothes on. Like ‘Daddyland.’”

Thank Meryl I am a storyteller, because there is no other way I could keep this NC-17 tale PG-13.

“You see, after you pay the price of admission, a kind man passes you a towel and opens the gate. Once you are inside, you can pretty much choose your own adventure.”

As the pasta course arrived, I told them all about the attractions.

“There are so many rides to choose from, it is hard to know where to start. Let me see… there is the dungeons and dragons exhibit. The hallway of one-thousand doors. The water park, workout jungle and… well, truth be told, the place is so dark and steamy, half the time you have no idea where you are. It is pretty much a maze.”

Taking my first bite of pasta, I could not help myself. “Ugh! Isn’t this cacio e pepe to die for?”

“What was your favourite part of Daddyland?” Heller asked, sounding genuinely intrigued.

“My favourite part?” Thinking back, I turned red.

“Well, you know me gents, I have always been terrified of rides. Plus, I had no idea how anything worked! I asked the man at the front for a guidebook or map and he just looked at me funny. After I put my clothes in a locker, a complete waste of an outfit if you ask me, I took a walk around and then left.”

“That’s it! You just left?” Drum was not pleased. “Come on Rugs! There is no way!”

“It’s true!” I said. “As soon as I got in, I immediately wanted to get off.”

The three of us looked at each other and smiled.

“You know,” I carried on, “now that I think about it, I know exactly what my favourite part of Daddyland was. No one talked. I have always found men to be much more attractive when they don’t speak.”

Next time on Rugged Fox… After dinner, the boys hit up a trendy restaurant called “Shipyard” for a pink nightcap. When the Fox excuses himself to the washroom, he has no idea what awaits him.

Last time on Rugged Fox… On the cusp of turning thirty-eight, Rugged finds himself in the throes of an identity crisis, again. Consulting Chat GPT for advice, he quickly gives up on AI and falls back on his old pal rosé. Returning to the closet from whence he came, he looks to his clothing for guidance; but all he finds is drag. Fast-forward one sea bus ride, and the balding ginger meets his handsome, strapping cousins for dinner in North Vancouver.

“What are we thinking gents, start off with a pint and move on to something red?”

As it happened, the 3 of us lucked out and managed to snag a table at Nook. It was Friday night, and the restaurant was packed with no reservations. Serving up good times with pasta, beer, pizza, and wine, Nook is always a smart choice any day of the week.

“I was thinking we could start off with burrata and prosciutto,” I reached for the menu, “and then move on to a cacio e pepe or perhaps a boscaiola. How do you boys feel about olives?”

“We like it all cous,” said Drum. Sitting beside him, Heller nodded his head in agreement.

As the first round of drinks were served, we raised our glasses in a toast, and relaxed back into the first sip.

Following the last few years, I still feel a heightened sense of gratitude whenever I sit at a table with my family. There is something too, these days, about growing older. I can still picture the way my cousins looked in the early 90’s. Spending our summers together in Calgary, we were young kids with our faces painted at the Stampede. And now, here we are, almost all grown up.

Once the appetizers arrived, H reached for a slice of prosciutto and asked, “How the is the writing going Rugs?”

“It’s…” I bumbled.

“Yeah…” I fumbled.

“So, about that…” I stumbled.

Reaching for a sip of pale ale, I felt anxious when my eyes began to drift. You see, I didn’t know it before; but whenever my vision strays from a conversation, it means my brain is stuck loading. Like there is a process I cannot quite compute. As the hourglass keeps turning, I struggle to find ways to hit reset. It is strange because this is never a problem I had before.

“The writing is… going,” I said, managing to form a full sentence.

I must admit to you, after a decade living in Vancouver, I have lost complete interest in talking points. Years ago, if you asked me how my artistic career was faring, I would have automatically replied, “it is great!” Then I would have told you in detail about 3 scripts and one book I had to write. Now, I am sans mots, without words.

Suddenly the awkward silence I had created became loud and clear. I could hear the crunch as Drum bit into a piece of crostini. The scratch of the fork against the ceramic dish as H dolloped more cheese. Even though nothing was being said, I could make out the thought each brother was thinking, what happened to cousin Rugs? I had to say something, and I had to say it quick. Otherwise, I was sure the aunts and uncles would start talking.

“So, I went to a bathhouse for the first time,” I shattered the silence.

“Come again?” said Drum, pausing mid-chew.

“What is a bathhouse?” asked Heller, innocently intrigued.

“Gentlemen, I think it is time to order wine,” I grabbed the list and looked for the server.

Next on Rugged Fox… Sweet Meryl, let’s keep it Uncle Curt Friendly folks.

Author’s Note: Dear reader, I thank you for your good looks and patience. These past few months, I have been busy doing field research. From the window seat at the Pumpjack to my balcony with a pair of binoculars, I have been collecting as many stories as I can. Some may see me as a journalist with no credentials. While others may think, “why does that man keep staring at me?” I want to you know that even though my wordcount may be delayed, I am always hard at work. - RF

RATED: UCFTM (Uncle Curt Friendly Thank Meryl)

This morning, I sat down for a cup of dark roast and a therapy session with artificial intelligence.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I typed into the chat box.

Without wasting anytime for thought or reflection it replied, “no problem, is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Obviously, I want to talk about it,” I wrote back.

Taking a sip of coffee, I felt a touch of impatience.

What happened next, I could barely bring myself to screenshot. I was fine when the robot politely excused itself from the conversation. I was even okay when it suggested a new search topic altogether. However, I had to draw a line when it had the veracity to tell me I was “complicated.”

“How dare you!” I shouted, gently closing my laptop cover. Then I asked Google to play Avril Lavigne.

Opening the door to my fridge, I engaged in a long debate about whether to open a can of sparkling water or a bottle of rosé. Putting together a considerable mental list of pros and cons, I reached for the non-alcoholic option after I started getting beeped at.

Relocating to my closet, I knew exactly what question I wanted to ask AI. How can I be on the cusp of thirty-eight, and find myself in the throes of an identity crisis? The worst part, of course, is that I have no idea what to wear.

Gliding my hand across the beautiful prints hanging before me, I let out the most gigantic sigh. “Oh, relics of my youth!” I proclaimed, doth taking a sip from my wine glass - wait, what? “Fabric from my past, forgive me for I did not know. For years, I gulped from a bottomless trough of self-confidence. Never did I imagine that one day it would dry up. Alas, I beg of you clothes, tell me, how I am supposed to put together an outfit, when I cannot even decide on a profile photo?”

Six hours and one nap later, I found myself traveling by sea to North Vancouver, enroute to visit my strapping cousins from Alberta. Standing fix feet tall with harrowing beards and basic survival skills, it was clear they waded in the premium part of the family’s gene pool.

It also goes without saying that each time we meet, I have to remind myself we’re related.

“Handsome cousins, oh hey!” I greeted Drum and Heller. After two firm handshakes turned into one group hug, I exclaimed, “How terribly unfortunate it is that we’re all related!”

Taking a step back, I noted the three of us were dressed for the rocky terrain of the Pacific Northwest. Sporting plaid button-up shirts, dark denim jeans, and tobacco brown leather boots, there was no mountain too high or valley too deep.

“How was your hike in Lynn Valley?” I asked Drum, before patting H on the back.

“It was great Rugs,” he replied. “How was your trek from the West End?”

“Arduous,” I spoke honestly. “Now come, I am sure you are both parched. Surely, there must be an ale around here with our names on it.”  

To be continued… because I am hungry and need a cheese sandwich.

Coming up next on Rugged Fox! While Rugged continues his completely respectable visit with his cousins, he is gobsmacked when he runs into a cockle of gays in the washroom.

“May I say, there are certain bars I will not frequent on Davie, because the washrooms are always occupied by people who have no use for the facilities.”