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OtisNena EskridgePublished online: 21 Oct 2008.

To cite this article: Nena Eskridge (2003) Otis, Harrington Lesbian Fiction Quarterly,4:4, 33-37

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Otis

Nena Eskridge

Otis put his suit on that morning like any other morning, the stain of lastweek’s potato salad on the lapel. Or was it ketchup? His eyes were too fee-ble to tell the difference anymore. It was Monday, the third of the month,which meant social security checks, long lines, and Otis getting to and fromthe bank before sunset. The cold night air made it nearly impossible forhim to wrap his hand around the street signs, the only thing that kept himfrom buckling to the sidewalk. Unfortunately, the plan wasn’t a foolproofone and he was often forced to rely on passersby to help him back onto hisfeet. But today, Otis felt lucky. It was Arthur’s birthday.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Otis pulled one pair of socks over an-other. He hoped the extra layer would keep his feet warm during his jour-ney across town to cash his two-hundred-dollar check. On his way back hewould stop for Fig Newtons, Arthur’s favorite and the only thing Otis couldget him to eat these days. It used to be the other way around–couldn’t gethim to stop. But age alters all, and Otis didn’t mind catering to the fewsmall whims Arthur had left, especially today.

It was a much easier journey, if not a downright pleasant one, when Ar-thur accompanied Otis. They relied on one another, rather than the streetsigns, for support. They would make a day of it. First, a visit to the public li-brary where both the books and the air conditioning were free. Then on tothe bakery for lemon squares and cups of hazelnut coffee. They would sitand boy-watch until the heat of the afternoon dwindled, then off to thebank and back to their room. But these little jaunts were starting to be toomuch for Otis now that Arthur’s memory was fading. At home was onething, in public was another. With each expedition came at least one tu-multuous tirade. And even though Otis knew it was simply Arthur’s way of

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venting frustration, Otis just didn’t have the emotional fortitude to ignorethe stares that followed.

“Who are you?” Arthur barked as they entered the grocery store that lasttime.

“You know very well who I am.” Otis dropped his voice to a whisper.“Your husband, you old ninny.”

“Husband! Hah! Get your hands off me, you damn fairy!” Arthursnatched his elbow away, nearly toppling them both. Paranoia has noboundaries. It transcends time, illness, passion.

Otis gently took his partner’s arm to steady them. “Quit being a jackass.Nobody cares about two old queens.”

“Where we going?” Arthur snarled loudly.“Today’s Tuesday. Where do we go every Tuesday?”“To buy Fig Newtons?” Arthur smiled, so did Otis.And so it was, thanks to Arthur’s erratic outbursts, that Otis began leav-

ing Arthur at home. Without his walking buddy, Otis dreaded the daily out-ings. He missed their collaborations in the grocery about which lunchfavorite to choose, mushroom or oriental flavored Ramen Noodle. His af-ternoon chats with the mailman and the butcher became a chore. He hadrun out of excuses for Arthur’s absence. And like Arthur, his own lips werebeginning to betray him. He knew full well what he wanted to say, butcouldn’t, and quickly tired of the piteous looks as he struggled to makehimself understood. So he stopped trying.

Without Arthur at his side, it took Otis twice as long to cover the samedistance. He numbered the street signs in his mind, from the front stoop oftheir SRO to the last. He knew exactly how many steps there were betweenposts, how many breaths to take, how many uneven cracks in the sidewalkto avoid. Sometimes, at the halfway point, he would find himself too ex-hausted to go on. When this happened, memories of his youth would flashbefore him–sad times of war, farewells, and inexplicable strength. Loadeddown with ammunition and food rations–the only black man in his battal-ion, he led his platoon from bunker to bunker. And at Normandy he sankto the bottom when the U-Boats dropped their doors in error, not close

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enough to shore. Most of his comrades drowned. He held his breath untilhis heavy boots pulled him to the ocean floor then marched until his headsurfaced for air. He crawled, crouched, and scrounged his way throughand to the end of the battle. And to his own amazement, survived. By God,he could make it to the bank.

Another tactic Otis used to spur himself on from one traffic sign to thenext was to think of Arthur and how they met all those years ago. Otispressed pants at a dry cleaner’s. Arthur drove the delivery truck. No onewas more surprised than Otis that first time his heart skipped a beat at thesight of Arthur. Not only was he male, but a white one, and married at that.Otis had never been with a man. He didn’t even know there was such athing. But they stumbled through it somehow, making love in alleywaysand delivery trucks, hotels, and gay bars. It was all about touching for Otis,he couldn’t get enough–Arthur’s large callused hands, his thick forearms,his tight warm stomach and tattooed shoulder. His feet, his toes. These rel-ished replays made Otis nostalgic, and sometimes even a little aroused.

Along with the many tender thoughts of Arthur came just as many pain-ful ones of Cassandra, Arthur’s wife. Every time Otis heard the name,pangs of guilt shot through him. She was a good woman and loved Arthurperhaps as much as he did–his stomach, his feet, his toes. Common de-cency, which he had plenty of, should’ve kept Otis away. But he couldn’thelp himself. He would never forget that look on her face the day she stum-bled in on them. No lie, no claim of a lost button or cramped calve, couldcover this one. Nothing could set their lives back on track. It was the end–itwas the beginning.

Otis always left the small TV with the wire-hanger rabbit-ears turned onfor Arthur when he left him alone. Arthur was addicted to the old game-show channel. It was the hideous hairdos and clothes that kept his atten-tion. Otis had a suspicion that if Arthur had it to do over again he would’vebeen a designer. He sewed nearly everything they wore until his fingersgrew crooked with age. If he hadn’t a wife and a baby to support, hewould’ve headed for Broadway, or so he claimed. Otis actually suggestedit once, moving to New York, but reality kept them anchored to their rural

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roots. Above and beyond it all, Arthur wanted to be near his son, and hewas, for the first few years, until Cassandra married again and movedaway. Arthur waited for notification of their new address, as promised, butit never came. He remained–they remained, with the hope that one daythe son might come back to find his father. He didn’t.

Otis could see the bank in the distance. Excitement clouded his judge-ment momentarily and he mistepped. His ankle gave way first, followed bya knee, then the rest of his body. Pain wasn’t ew to Otis, merely a warningsign that frightened him to the core. One false move and he would lose Ar-thur forever. Ambulance to the hospital, hospital to a nursing home. Ahouse of cards tumbling one after another, completely out of his control.He lay on the ground without moving, a quick assessment in his head. Firsthe moved his arms: check; one hip, then the other; double check; one footafter the other. He was okay. A woman stopped her car and was immedi-ately at his side.

“Are you all right?” She seemed genuinely concerned.“Huh?” Otis was still preoccupied with his body check.“Let me help you.”“Check,” was the only response he could manage.The lady, with the aid of another, gently pulled him to his unsteady feet.

Relief overshadowed his humiliation. He never knew for sure until he wasupright again.

“Where are you going, sir?” He was still too rattled so speak so hepointed. She followed his gesture across the street to an old building.

“The bank?” She said kindly. He nodded excitedly. “Would you like meto drive you?”

His eyes answered, because his mouth refused to. He lowered himselfcarefully from the curb, with the assistance of a tree, and inched his way to-ward the passenger side. The woman watched for a moment, unsure, thenfollowed to help him with the car door. Otis could feel the woman’s pity.The car reeked of it. Not that he wasn’t grateful. The ride would assure hisarrival back at home before nightfall. But he loathed pity, especially thewhite kind. He wasn’t feeble because he was drunk. His clothes weren’t

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dirty because he was poor. He wanted her to know, damn it, that it hadnothing to do with the color of his skin. Age was the culprit and no matterhow much money she had or face cream she used–one day it would findher, too. But, as was usually the case, the words stopped short.

At the bank, she hurried out of the car while Otis was busy attempting tolocate the handle to open the door. She beat him to it and helped him out.

“You’re all set?” She blurted, more of a proclamation than a question.“Thank you, Ma’am.” He held out his hand for her to shake, which she

did.“You’re welcome.” She smiled happily, like an owner who has just seen

her puppy perform a new trick, then hurried away, self-righteous and satis-fied by her own good deed.

Empowered by the notion that he had plenty of extra time, Otis hobbledto the heavy metal bank door, and pulled. It didn’t budge. He tried again,to no avail. Suddenly panicked, he pressed his face against the window tolook inside, but the building was empty. He squinted his worn out andweary eyes at the sign on the window announcing Closed for MemorialDay.

Devastated, the old man dragged his weary feet to a nearby bench andlowered himself onto it. He pulled his sweat-soaked and tattered hat fromhis head and wiped his brow. He couldn’t muster enough energy to lift hisgaze from the ground. His entire body ached, but his heart hurt most. A setof feet appeared before him and several bills dropped into the hat he heldin his hand. His confusion slowly changed into mortification, mortificationinto misery, then all into exhilaration as his face broke into a broad, nearlytoothless grin.

“Fig Newtons for Arthur.”Otis fingered his windfall for a quick count then pocketed the bills. He

knew he had to hurry. The fading warmth on his face told him the sun wasbeginning its descent. It was a struggle, but he got to his feet. If he couldmake it to the grocery with no further mishaps, he’d be back home beforeArthur closed his eyes for the night, to wish him a happy birthday with acookie and a kiss.

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