"If there were
Some token now, some mark to make the division
Clear between friend and friend, the true and the false!"

"Hippolytus," Translation by David Grene. Lines 924-926. Used without permission.
 

MICHAEL:

October 11, 2001
 

Only the prof would have a tux fitting at 9 a.m. I think he should be shot for this.

I spent the night with Kelly and Langly and me got up early to go do this. We were not pleased. Langly's still sick, I'm still sick, Kelly's still sick, we're all dying here. Dad seems to be the healthiest one in the bunch right now.

Kelly was stupid, she only stayed home one day, and so she's of course not better. I can say she was stupid because I didn't even stay home one day, and I'm not getting better. Langly's been staying home, but he's got Darth Vader expecting him to produce results from bed. Which is insane. He isn't sure if he's better or not. He thinks he is. Fooled me.

And it's gonna be a long day. Tonight's Mulder's surprise party for his 40th. Normally I think this'd be great-I mean, how could you pass up a chance to bust on Mulder?

Personally, I'd rather sleep.

Well, that's what's on tap for this afternoon. I'm coming home after the fitting and then I'm getting back in bed with Kelly, and we'll wake up when it's time to go. Even studying has to wait today. We're just too out of it.

We get to the tux place, Dad's there, Langly and me are there, but no Mulder. He was supposed to show up for this gig. How the hell'd he get out of it? I mean, being the birthday boy is no excuse. And it's not his real birthday till Monday, anyway.

"He said he'd take care of it himself," Dad says.

"And you believed him?" Langly looks at him like, you're an idiot.

"What am I supposed to do, go to his home and forcibly remove him?" Dad shoots back to us.

"Yes!" Me and Langly answer together.

Byers is actually the last one there, which is weird, Mr. Obsessive-Compulsive is usually the first one waiting. You expect him to be waiting for the fucking proprietor, for Christ's sake.

Take one look at him, and it's not hard to figure out why he was late. He's all pink. We know what this means. Langly and me give him the finger behind his back, because he's getting it and we're not.

Of course, it'd be nice to feel up to getting it!

Langly goes first, he's gonna be the hardest because of the stupid arm. And he's like, do NOT touch my T-shirt. First day he says he got one on, and it took him and Ally like twenty minutes of agony to do it. Dad unhooks his sling and it shows off his cast, which we've all signed with various insults and obscenities. Hey, if the slogan fits...

We're all waiting, and we hear this yell like he's getting killed, and then he starts up this coughing fit, which I think he's doing for the tailor's benefit. Payback is a bitch, you know.

Langly gets done, he's like really snarling now. Tailor tells him that the Ramones don't work under white pleated shirts. Langly gives him the finger, something he's been doing to a lot of people lately.

"You went a whole week without the Ramones," I remind him.

"Yeah, and I'm going through fucking withdrawal."

It's my turn to be tortured now.
 

FROHIKE:

Langly nudges me on the arm. "C'mon, gotta talk to you."

I'm really not up for a disagreeable Langly right now, but I nod in assent. "What is it?"

"Outside."

We stand outside, and it's not the morning for it. It's cold and wet and it's the last place he should be right now.

"All right, what is it? If you're going to complain to me about being woken up at the crack of 8 o'clock, save it."

"Jesus Christ, you think all I do is whine?"

"Langly, I KNOW all you do is whine."

He looks hurt. Tough.

I know I'm less than agreeable myself right now. Martha did not get off work last night. Another scuffle, more victims. And not enough staff. This means no erotic activity, and I'm sorry, my old friend Senor Mano doesn't do it for me like he used to.

"Anyway, if you can quit being a bastard for ten seconds-"

"Langly, you should talk." I know what he's like when he's under the weather. Normally I'd wish otherwise, but I hope for her own sanity's sake, Allison is drinking in the evenings again. Either that, or there'll be homicide. Not that any jury would convict her.

"I'm trying to say like, you know how Byers asked me to like be the best man and all?"

"That's your job, dear boy."

"Well...um..." He looks down at his oversized feet, and I can feel a bit of pink rising on his cheeks. "Like, this is kind of...okay, like I think you oughta do it. I mean, really, you should."

"Byers asked you." And whatever my feelings on the subject are, that's what should be honored.

"Yeah, well, y'know, it's like, well, I just..."

For a well-educated man, he's shocking inarticulate at times.

I look at him. "Is there any particular reason for this? Are you not feeling up to it?"

"No, no, it's not that...it's just...like you do a lot for him...for like all of us..." He's shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

I have to admit I'm enjoying it, just a tiny bit. Watching Langly squirm is a rare treat.

That should put your mind to rest once and for all that I am indeed an evil bastard.

"Look, it should be yours, okay?"

I'd like nothing better, if the truth be told...but I don't think it's my decision to be made.

"Let's ask the groom."
 

LANGLY:

You might think it's a stupid, trivial thing, my wanting Fro to take my place, but I think he deserves it, really. Not me. Fro does it all for us. I mean, I think Byers wanted to return the favor 'cause I asked him, but you know, sometimes, you don't need to return some favors. Or you got favors that need more returning.

I think that's true here. Fro deserves this. He should be the one.

"Hey Byers. We gotta ask you something."

He seems off in dreamland somewhere, but I jolt him back to reality pretty quick. "No, you can't wear your Doc Martens, Langly."

"Jesus fuck, how come everybody thinks they know what I'm gonna ask before I even open my mouth?"

Fro and Byers both laugh at me. All right, sometimes they do know. Okay, they know lots of times! Everybody happy now?

"Anyway, would you like mind if Fro did the best dude thing instead of me?"

Byers looks a little surprised, but he smiles. "Are you okay with that?"

"Works for me," I shrug. And it does.

"Frohike?" He looks at Frohike uncertainly.

"Up to you. I, of course, would be honored."

"If you two are happy with it, I certainly am." Byers nods at us as he gets called to get fitted.

This is good. Fro really wanted to do it. Deserved to do it. And I'm happy to let him.

"Byers? You mind if I get a top hat?" Fro is really getting into it. Byers just kind of rolls his eyes like, whatever.

Yeah, letting Fro do was the right thing.

Besides, the rings get lost, I won't be the one that gets blamed.

I can live with that.
 

This whole thing takes about an hour, and we're done. Now I'm ready to go home and crash. I think Junior is, too. He's looking pretty dead here.

However, Byers and Frohike have it in their brains that we should all get breakfast, and Junior and me, well, you'll never see us pass up a free meal, Byers is offering to treat as payment for getting us up at this godawful hour. That's the good thing about Byers. He feels guilty about some stuff-not guilty enough not to do it, but at least that you get some alternate compensation for it.

Fro has this theory that civilization would collapse without guilt. I wonder.

I mean, I think part of the reason that I wanted Fro to be the best dude was, I do feel kind of guilty that he picked me instead of Fro, when he deserves it more. And it made Frohike real happy. You can tell. He was just beaming.

And I'm too tired to do more than the minimum daily requirements right now.

I was thinking we'd probably just hit Hugo's or something here in town, but Byers is like, let's go to Mitch's.

"I'm not driving," I remind them.

"Me neither, my car won't make it," Junior whines.

"What the fuck you doing to my car, Junior? It was fine when I sold it to you."

He laughs at me. "Langly, I'm the only reason that car is still gimping along, thank you very much. If it wasn't for me, it'd still be in pieces in your driveway."

"Bullshit. You're killing it."

"Am not!"

"C'mon, kids, I'll drive."

Oh God. We're going to Maryland. In the Frohike mobile.

It's way too early in the day for this kind of excitement.
 

MICHAEL:

Dad's car. It's scary.

Mostly because I swear he's never cleaned out the back seat. Langly and me have to make room in it to sit down.

"You know, there's a Tuesday special at the Fairfax Auto Wash," Byers is like trying to be so diplomatic.

"That's ladies' day," Dad reminds him.

"So go in drag," Langly says.

Dad turns and gives him like this look of death. "Only if I can borrow your fuck-me-quickly pumps."

"You'd never fit 'em," Langly taunts back. "And besides, I lent 'em to Byers here."

Byers knows they're kidding, but the dude blushes anyway. "Langly, I don't think anyone's ever seen me in high heels."

"Ah, that's the thing, isn't it? No one's ever SEEN you in high heels. Doesn't mean you never tried them on!" Langly's decided to of course beat this into the ground.

I just want a nap.

"I haven't," Byers protests.

"Hey, d'you ever try on your sister's underwear?" Langly asks us.

"Langly!" Dad's like, oh Jesus, what did I start now?

"Well, did you?" Langly's not letting it go.

"Is this Truth or Dare?" Byers is like, oh shit.

"That's a girls' game!" I tell them. And it is, that's what girls do when they're together, I've seen Miranda and her buds doing it. It's pretty damn scary.

"So? We're talking about women's clothes, right? So c'mon, tell!" Langly's just like, he's enjoying giving Dad and Byers so much shit. And me, but he always gives me shit, this is nothing new.

"You first." Dad's like, you started it, you say it.

"Yeah, I did." Langly's like grinning in between coughing. "How I learned to take bras off, y'know."

"We'll check with Allison on your technique," Dad's like dry.

"So what about it, Junior? You ever do it?"

Oh Christ. "Yeah, I did, once. But my sister's kind of fat, they didn't fit too good."

"Michael, don't talk about your sister that way," Dad scolds.

"Well, she's a pudge!"

"Michael, shut up!" Of course I'm the one that gets busted on.

"Hey, I can talk, I'm buff." Well, sort of anyway.

"So Byers? Time to kiss and tell, buddy." Langly's not gonna let him off the hook. That's fine, as long as he leaves me the fuck alone. I'm so tired.

Byers has this look on his face like we're pointing a gun at him, it's so funny. I mean, what's the big deal? According to Miranda's Cosmo survey, most guys have done this at some time. (And hey, what better authority do you need than Cosmo?)

He's like so red, I mean, we're at a stoplight and he could pass for it right now. Langly's having way too much fun with this...I have to admit, okay, I'm enjoying it, too.

"C'mon, Byers, we told, you can."

He takes like this big gulp of air. "Once. I tried Kat's on."

"The bra or the whole works?" Langly's really busting a gut here, and I got to admit, me too.

"Uh, everything." The poor guy. He like, he is SO embarrassed. Langly and me are having a blast.

"So Dad? Your turn!" I challenge him.

"None of your business," he growls at us.

"Frohike, no fair!" Byers is like dying here, least my dad could do is play along.

"I've never done it," Dad mumbles under his breath.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire!" Langly's taunting him.

"Langly, shut up!"

"Fro, this is like so unfair. We tell all, you tell nothing-"

"And I'd like to keep it that way, thank you!" Ooh, Oscar the Grouch is back.

"Dad, it's not like we're gonna tell anyone else!" Of course, the thought of Dad trying on women's undies is sort of scary...

"You can ask Irene if you're so interested." He's talking about his big sister, my Aunt Irene. Late Aunt Irene, that is.

"She's like totally dead, Dad! Duh!"

"My point exactly."

Langly leans over to whisper in my ear, which is not really something I want him to do because he's probably gonna spit all over me when he coughs, but he's like, I got an idea, show you later.

Whatever.

It'll serve him right.
 

Uh-oh. Mitch's was NOT a good idea.

Don't get me wrong, I love the food here. We all do.

Problem is, by all I include Dad, and this place, well, it's cholesterol hell if you're his arteries.

Oh man. We should've gone to DonnaJ's. You can at least get fruit there. Only thing that looks like fruit around here comes in one of the pies Mitch's mom makes. With butter in the crust. Lots of butter.

I'm trying to think of something that doesn't have butter in it here. Nothing comes to mind.

"Byers, get over here!" I stand by the car while they're all walking in.

"What?" He turns to me, mystified. Him of all people.

"Just get over here!"

Dad and Langly walk in to bag a table, which might be hard because it's pretty crowded here, I guess even the biker crowd needs the most important meal of the day.

Once they're inside, I start in on Byers.

"You're a fucking idiot! My dad can't eat here!"

Oh man. He looks like I shot him. "Oh God. I totally forgot. Michael, I'm sorry, I'll see if they want to go somewhere else-"

"Dad's not gonna wanna go anywhere else and you know it! And he's here, and he's like he won't budge now, and he can't have this stuff here!"

"Michael, look, I'm really sorry, I guess I'm not thinking-"

"Look, dude, where is your brain? I mean, wasn't it enough we almost lost him twice? You think third time's gonna be a charm?"

He looks really upset, but I am too. My dad's got a birthday in like 15 days. I'd like to see him make it. I should've said something, but my brain was out to lunch, too...

"Michael, I'm really sorry-"

"Oh, hell, not your fault, man, he's a big boy, he should say something. Like he knows what they serve here, he could've said something, but he's like, does he give a fuck about what happens to me?"

"Michael, I think you know the answer to that one."

Do I?
 

FROHIKE:

It's crowded, and we have to wait. I wonder what the hell was going on with Michael and Byers. It didn't look friendly, which is a surprise-things are not normally tense between them. I know that Michael gets on his nerves from time to time-name a living mortal that knows Michael to whom that doesn't happen, you won't find one-but when that occurs, Byers just walks away until he can deal with the boy calmly again.

Finally, we're up, and Mitch takes over from the host, who doubles as one of the bartenders at night, working the door.

"Oh fuck. What did I do to deserve this?" He groans when he sees us.

"Oh, c'mon, asshole, we've paid for most of the mortgage on this place!" Langly tells him.

"My ass you have. I counted on you fuckrags for profit, I'd be in debtors' prison."

"Then you shouldn't bet against us," I remind him. Mitch is a great bartender, but a crappy gambler. He even loses to Mulder.

"See you fuckrags brought the boy. How's doing, little Frohike?"

Michael winces; I know how much he hates references to his height. I know this because I hate them as well.

"Well, I'm breathing. Barely." He does sound awful.

"Yeah, what's with that? Business is way down. Got about half my regulars laid up right now. Jackie and the kids, too. And my regular cook's down with it. Which means you're in luck."

"Why would that be?"

"Because my mama's filling in this morning."

Genie's here. Damn.

Well, I can forget about getting away with the cheese omelet, hash browns and bacon I'd planned to enjoy as one would an illegal drug. And I was so looking forward to being naughty. Of course, God only knows what I'd have to bribe these jokers with not to rat me out to Martha.

It would have been worth it. I have been craving a cheese omelet for so long it's not funny. Now that I don't need to dream about sex anymore-it's become a pleasant reality again-my fantasies have shifted to food and drink. Mostly the ones I'm not allowed to have.

"Hey Mitch, Junior here's engaged." Langly manages to work this out between coughing.

"What the fuck're you doing outta bed, you idiot?" Mitch glares at him.

We all point our thumbs at Byers. "This is the idiot here. He decided we should have a tux fitting at 9 a.m." Mitch looks up, squints at Michael. "You say you asked the little girl to marry you?"

"Uh-huh. I did." Michael beams.

"And she said yes? Got no brains, that one." This is what passes for congratulations at Mitch's. And Michael knows it, and smiles even wider.

"You're telling me," I grumble. I'm still having a hard time with this. I still think they're too young.

"But this morning, we're making him pay," Langly points to Byers. "He got us outta bed at this ungodly hour, give him the check."

"Are you going to be there next week?" Acceptances are being tended to by Juliet. For all Byers knows, Alfred E. Neuman could be on the guest list.

Mitch gives him a look as if he's lost his mind. "Course I's gonna be there, you idiot. 'Sides, gotta help my mama."

"Nah, you just want the free booze," Langly is full of it this morning.

"Oh, and like you won't take no advantage'a that!" Mitch shoots back at him. "Hold on, you fuckrags. Gotta let my mama know you's here."

We never get to order at Mitch's. It's a tradition. You eat what gets set in front of you. I don't think that's true of all the patrons-most of the newcomers have menus. But with us, we get told what we're going to have.

So far, I've never been disappointed, but if Genie's in the kitchen, and she knows I'm here...

This is not improving my disposition.
 

BYERS:

This is so like old times in so many ways, and so not like it in others.

How many meals have I shared in dives with Frohike and Langly? How many arguments and discussions and bullshit sessions have I had with them in settings not unlike this one, let alone all the times we've been in this very spot?

And today feels like déjà vu in some ways, not in others.

We have Michael along, which is a change. He's become one of us. I think even his father would have to grudgingly admit that Michael has earned his place.

So much has changed. We live in different places now. We all have homes of our own, loves of our own, lives of our own. And yet we remain inextricably bound to one another.

I close my eyes and think, I hope to God that is one thing that never changes. Langly once said growing old with them wasn't so bad.

At the time, it was just the three of us, and no outcroppings of significant others carving their places in our world. I cringed.

I have so much affection for these people. I trust them. I lean on them. When everything else has been strange, they have made it familiar. Our situations change. Our caring does not. I count on that surely as I do there being oxygen in my next breath.

No, growing old with them is a good thing.

Although I have to admit, I don't miss sharing a bathroom with them.
 

FROHIKE:

I see four plates being carried to our table by Mitch. In view of his size, this is no problem for him.

God only knows what's on mine.

For Byers, waffles with blueberries and whipped cream; Langly gets his usual French toast dusted with cinnamon and sugar, and for Michael, his favorite, strawberry pancakes. And for me...

A lovely cheese omelet, hash brown potatoes, and bacon, cooked crisp.

I feel like a little boy playing hooky.

"Hey, he can't have that!" Michael shouts out to Mitch, but Mitch holds up his beefy paw.

"My mama says won't hurt him none to 'dulge himself once in while. And you go hassling him, I'll whip your sorry little asses." He glares at my three dining companions, whom he can each take out with one hand, easily.

"Martha's gonna kill you," Langly warns me.

"Martha ain't gonna know." Mitch lets them know who's in charge. "You got it?"

Michael isn't taking this lying down.

"Says who?"

"Says my mama."

Langly and Byers look at Michael like, don't go there.

"Okay, okay, whatever." Michael sulks, but he gets the message.

Thank you Genie.

END OF PART 74