The hibiscus I gave Mike years ago when he was living in the Montrose is putting on quite the show. I mention it in FLOM, in a chapter called “I got the guy who should have been gay.”
Mike loved plants, and many a weekend excursion included a trip to a local garden center. Once I bought a hibiscus with frilly peach-colored blossoms, loaded it into my car, and on my lunch hour drove to Mike’s bachelor pad to leave it as a surprise. I did worry it might be just a bit too pretty, but as it turned out it didn’t matter. By that time, Mike had abandoned all pretense of keeping his apartment clean enough for any weekend visits on my part, and it had been some time since I’d been there. So as I got out of the car, I was surprised to see his second-floor deck ablaze with color.
Christ, Mike, and you wonder why people think you’re gay.
I placed the hibiscus in the middle of his potted flower garden, where he would eventually notice it. Then I looked through his kitchen window and saw teetering piles of dirty dishes and other disgusting chaos.
Well, if anyone has any doubt, all they need to do is look in his front door, I thought as I drove away. No gay man would live in such squalor.