Being Freddie Mercury

by J. S. Balaban (November 2025)

–

“Do you want that?” Frank asks, pointing to the pickle languishing on his son’s plate. In the hubbub of stray conversations and bussers clearing tables, he’s unsure that Tom has heard him.

“Dad, I’m still eating.” His son frown may as well be an emoji as he scrolls through his phone.

“When you were young, you never liked pickles. Frank will say most anything to get his son’s attention. His fingers jag over the plate. “When did you start eating pickles?”

Tom’s dark brows pinch as he waves his father’s hand away. “That is so rude.”

Frank smiles awkwardly and reaches for his sandwich. He drove from Baltimore after a restless night. Right now he could use a little conversation. For a fourth evening, his bed is a single mattress in a new apartment next to an office park. It’s a limbo of sorts, a place where people go between jobs or separation and divorce. The fear that kept him awake was that something rancid would leak from the ceiling stain over his bed, like pus from a boil. He’s not in his house anymore because his wife, Tom’s mother, forced him out two weeks ago. Nearly thirty years of devotion and this is his life now, a small apartment in an isolated building, separated from family and everything he loves.

A blotch of Russian dressing escapes his Reuben, greasing the front of his shirt. “Damn it,” Frank mutters, dabbing with a damp paper napkin.

“You should wear a bib, Dad,” his son says dryly.

“I know, I know. You’d think I was a child,” Frank says. His fingers flap napkin remnants.

Tom nods and smiles.

Frank last saw his son in August when he moved to an off-campus apartment. Even then, Frank believed that his wife’s troubles with him would pass. Driving this morning, he grappled with whether to tell Tom of their separation or continue to internalize it. Kathleen, or Kitten as she prefers, has made Frank pledge to wait until Thanksgiving. She wants to break the news when Tom and his two older sisters are all together. Frank reluctantly agreed, his ankles one atop the other under the table. To him that was as good as crossing his fingers, so maybe there’s room to speak. But the timing’s not right. Not yet.

“I should tell you about Snuggles.” Frank pauses to see if his mentioning the family dog grabs more attention. “She peed on the living room rug.” Leaning forward, he whispers. “Twice in one week.”

Tom puts his phone aside. “Snuggles isn’t that old. Aren’t there pills for that?”

“Your mom took her to the vet Thursday.” Frank knows this because Kitten had texted him. “She gave Snuggles some medicine, but it hasn’t worked.”

Tom was eight when they brought home Snuggles. He’d lain on the floor, chin resting on his hands, his nose close enough to smell the sweetness in the black pup as she pawed the carpet. The bond between them has been unbreakable since. Something else becomes clear as Frank sits across from his son. While the dog has aged, Tom is just coming onto his own. No longer the juvenile lying with his dog, he is tall and lanky, his voice carrying the resonance of a maturing young man.

“Snuggles needs to go out first thing in the morning and then before bed. You’re not walking her enough, are you?” Tom picks his phone up and lays it down again. “You should have brought her with you.”

Frank would have liked to bring the dog, to have company for the ride and surprise Tom, but then he would have had to ask Kitten, and she has said no to everything he’s requested. Can he meet her for dinner and talk? Take a walk in the park? Let him spend the night to see if they can rekindle some of the lost passion? But Kitten’s indifference has settled like a stone to the bottom of Inner Harbor. She’s reached some type of mid-life crisis, Frank’s decided. She needs some room for herself to figure out whatever it is that she wants. In the meantime, he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. Over the weeks before she asked him to leave, they sat in the cheerless office of a marriage counselor, talking in circles to the point where Frank got headaches. He even asked Kitten if she was seeing someone. No, she said, laughing, as if Frank could never understand that he’s reason enough for the separation.

“What don’t you like about me?” He’d asked her, not believing he had to pose the question at this point in their marriage.

Standing in the living room, Kitten counted off on her fingers. Frank felt compelled to listen. He wanted to understand.

So, he raises his voice now and then. Who doesn’t? He grew up in a family that communicated through barks and anxious outbursts, like a pack of unsocialized dogs. To her, it may sound like shouting, but he’s just trying to be heard.

She objected to his posing obvious questions, asking if Kitten went shopping when bags of groceries crowd the kitchen table, or for whom is the roast that’s thawing in the sink? But he’s not playing any kind of game. He’s making conversation to break the silence that Kitten has raised like a wall around her. But it’s his maladroit comments that seem to get mostly under her skin. She has yet to forgive him for asking her boss about his vasectomy at her company picnic.

Finally, she said it. “Nothing about you interests me anymore. I think we’ve reached our end.” And then she went to her room and shut the door.

Frank can still feel the pain of her blunt assessment. He looks at his food. His Reuben has hardened, and he pushes his plate away. He reaches for his mug, but the coffee is cold. Still holding it, he looks for the waitress.

“Why not have a beer, Dad? It’s after twelve,” Tom says. “You’re in a college town. Everybody drinks.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me to. What if you choke on your fries and I have to drive you to the emergency room?”

His son shakes his head and covers his face with his hands.

“Does everything I say embarrass you?”

“No, Dad. Just the dumb stuff.” His son looks at him meaningfully, as if he’s doing him a favor.

Frank exhales, gives his plate a half-turn and places both fists on the table. Frank’s home life is a mess, but he’s here to rescue the relationship with his son. “I’ll keep coming around and saying what I say because I care about you.” His hands unknot and his fingers splay across the table top. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

Clearing his throat, Frank pulls back. He hates conflict. Maybe he should have voiced his fear of how things were going to Kitten, confronted her to show he cared. It’s too late now, and he doesn’t know how to win her back. He pushes the thought aside.

“Well then, any plans for dinner tonight?” Frank asks, as if the last minute of their conversation hadn’t happened. “Perhaps we grab a steak or sushi.” He puts a finger to his mouth, edges the nail between his teeth and tries wedging loose whatever is stuck there. “Or go vegan? Whatever you like.”

After dinner, he can tell Tom about the separation. Then they’ll have time to discuss what happened, and he can try answering any questions his son might have.

Tom’s mouth stumbles as if he’s been caught off guard. Frank wonders what the problem is now.

“Not sure about dinner, Dad.” Tom grips his iced tea. “My roommates and I are throwing a party tonight. Just some friends over to the house.”

Frank leans over his plate. “You didn’t say anything about a party.” His voice is more snappish than he likes. He takes a deep breath. “I thought you said it was okay to come up this weekend? That we could spend time together?”

“Fathers’ Weekend was last weekend.” His son emphatically bends forward as Frank retreats. “Why didn’t you come up then?”

“Because that’s what all the dads do,” Frank says, waving his hand. “Jeez, are you afraid to be a little bit different?” Frank has no idea what he’s saying, but believes he might be onto something. “Campus would have been crowded. Can you imagine trying to get lunch or a dinner reservation then?” he asks, thinking the obvious sometimes goes right over his son’s head. “Besides, I asked and you texted it was okay to come up.” He waves for the waitress and makes a gesture of signing the check. “No worries. I’ll go back to the hotel. Maybe watch a movie. Is there an art cinema on campus? I could always catch a foreign flick.” Frank draws out the sarcasm as if it’s a dipstick and he’s checking the depths of his son’s humor.

“Hey, Dad. You’re welcome to come. It’s just a few friends,” Tom says. The petulance on his face has changed to sympathy. “I hate the idea of you watching HBO alone in your hotel or out catching some film with subtitles. That just wouldn’t be right.”

Frank smiles wanly, heartened by his son’s offer, but he knows to keep his enthusiasm in check. Few things annoy Tom more than seeing his dad gush, as if Frank will stray into another awkward moment. Frank purses his lips and nods. “That’d be good. I’ll buy the beer.”

“We got it covered, but would you mind picking it up?”

“You’ll come with me, right?”

“Of course, Dad.” Again, the look of fatigue on his son’s face.

When Tom’s like this, Frank can see Kitten, and he wonders what he’s done to trigger such exhaustion in the family he loves so much. They’re not so much agreeing as giving in, and Frank doesn’t like the condescension that comes with it. But he’ll never let his son see his frustration. Instead, he takes to heart that he’s charged with running for beer, as if some important task to the success of the evening has been dropped in his lap.

“Sure. No problem,” says Frank. He senses a smile widening on his face as he watches Tom finish his turkey club.

“What?” Tom asks.

“Nothing. Just enjoying lunch. Nice place here.” It’s November, more chilly and dreary here than in Baltimore. There’s cheer in the sing-song rhythm of the diners’ voices, a comfort with the warm, well-lit atmosphere as the dull cold presses at the windows.

Frank sinks into the cushioned booth, taking pleasure in the moment. Outside he sees his car in the paved lot, like a chariot, standing by, prepared for duty. Perhaps it will be a good evening after all.

Frank hustles his bag from the car to his motel room, where he flops into a chair and flips on the TV. Tom has begged off for the afternoon so he can work on a mathematics project before the party. As an economist expounds on the benefits of inflation, Frank ponders how more focused his son is with his studies than he was at that age. Frank had muddled through college with a history degree. During the ensuing years, he didn’t just change jobs, but professions as well:  bartender, fitness instructor, copywriter for a marketing firm, insurance sales. They were all part of a great meandering that defined his twenties.

He liked music and knew some guys at the local club who were putting together a band. As a young man, Frank had been awkward. Quiet by nature, his isolation had blunted his social acumen. Being on stage was different. With the lyrics and songs rehearsed, his moves choreographed, he developed a striking presence. The group evolved into a glam metal band with Frank as its front man. Before each performance, he’d apply black eyeliner, rouge and magenta lip gloss. Slip torn fishnet gloves up his arms and loop a couple of studded belts across his spindly, naked chest. The transformation excited him. He could sing, and having morphed into someone few people at work would recognize, he took the stage, baying across a wide vocal range while jumping about like a madman riding a pogo stick.

And he loved Queen. His stunt at parties was to strip to his boxers and a tee shirt, grab a beer bottle and, using it as a mic, perform a crazy-assed impression of Freddie Mercury. The first time was 1991. Mercury had just died. Video clips of his Live Aid performance were everywhere. Like the Queen vocalist, Frank was slight of build with dark, flowing hair and a rapturous, high voice. He had pearly whites from years of orthodontic care, but he sucked his lower lip over his bottom teeth and pranced about, being Freddie Mercury for five raucous minutes that captured everyone’s attention.

It was a phase like so many others. The band fell apart and two years passed before he landed a job with a federal agency. He met Kitten at a social in D.C. She worked in communications for the Bureau of Land Management. Where Frank was naturally inward, Kitten was outgoing, comfortable talking to anyone about anything. She seemed to complement him. From the beginning, he imagined a life with her. They dated and eighteen months later were married.

Kitten’s first accusation was that marriage had changed Frank, as if finding a life partner had satisfied some long-term goal that, once achieved, allowed him to coast. Part of Frank was always a little bit self-satisfied, and his union with Kitten, had given him an over-sized sense of accomplishment. As their family grew, Frank allowed himself to be lulled into a sense of complacency, as if everything was functioning as it should.

Much like his comments to Kitten, Frank would ask obvious questions of his children, especially of Tom, who was more reticent than his sisters. Did he open the birthday card he’d given him? Had he fed Snuggles? In going to the school prom, was Tom taking Mia, whom he was dating, or someone else? Frank’s efforts to engage his son seemed forced and outside of the natural give and take a father has with his children, and his son seemed put off by them.

Certain things would set Frank off. It was rarely a pronounced family dysfunction, such as his children tearing into each other, but some random disruption, like a garbage can not returned to its rightful place in the garage. Or the mail left other than on its corner of the dining room table. Each time, he’d bark his displeasure, like a sheepdog trying to yap disorder out of the herd.

Frank’s daughters deferred. They knew that his flaring was temporary and that in no time he’d return to his docile self. Tom was different. He pulled back, seemingly flustered by the whipsaw between his father’s over solicitous ways and intermittent impatience.

Now pushed out of his own home, Frank scratches his head as the TV rambles on, unable to see how his behavior has soured the relationship with his son or his wife. Wishing for all of it to be different, but not having a clue how to begin.

Toward mid-afternoon, Frank places his overstuffed duffel on the luggage stand and unzips it. His socks and underwear spill out as if a fluffle of escaping bunnies. At the bottom he finds his cold-weather running gear. Tom’s a good runner, won regionals his senior year in the 800 meters. Though the jog Frank hoped to take with him didn’t happen, he slips on the black leggings and a thin, thermal top. He’s not going for a run, just planning to keep warm should he find himself, like college parties in his past, drinking outdoors after dark. Something ab0ut standing in the cold invigorates him.

He sits down to text Kitten that he’s here, visiting Tom. God, he misses her! He recalls her delight in splashing off an Ocean City beach or hiking the Smokey Mountains, her way of being in the moment, of making him feel alive and part of something greater than himself. He can’t see the small keyboard for the tears in his eyes. He longs to know where she is, whom she’s with. Or whether she is alone like him, paralyzed with questions as to how they fell apart?

Yesterday, he bought Tom a card and had written a note: To the finest son a Dad could hope for. He’d turned the card over in his hands, feeling the words, hoping the emotion behind them might charm his son, bring him closer. And then he placed a $100 bill into the card and sealed the envelope. Money wouldn’t hurt. He meant to hand it to Tom at lunch but will give it to him before the party.

A gust of wind rattles the motel window. Frank looks, and outside the bare trees bend and dead leaves scramble wildly across the brown grass. The thermals warm his arms and legs. Slowly, he puts on his sweater and a jacket, but he’s shivering before he steps out the door.

Frank parks two doors from his son’s apartment, the first floor of a lumbering house. When moving Tom in, Frank knew by its size and age that the rooms would be a bear to heat. Frank lost his virginity in a house like that, trembling under the blankets, excited beyond understanding, with a sophomore girl. Plastic sheeting was taped over the drafty windows to keep out the cold, and it felt like humping inside an oversized bread bag. Funny how he remembers the place, the time of year, and the weeks of fucking that followed. Everything but her name.

When he arrived at Tom’s apartment this morning, Frank had shoved an umbrella, a couple of sweaters and a box of clothing to the side, creating a sense of order so Tom wouldn’t suspect he’s moved, or worse, that he’s living out of his car. Now, he opens the back door of his car and gently slides his arm under the sweaters.

When no one answers the front door, Frank crosses the porch to tap on a window. He puts his free hand atop the sweaters and presses his forehead against the cold pane. He’s looking to see if anyone is moving about. The sun is already low in the sky. In the warm glow of a table lamp, a guy crosses the room.

The door opens, and one of Tom’s roommates stands there rubbing his side as if he’s just wakened. The smell of weed wafts around him like he’s one large scratch-and-sniff card. Frank follows him through the living room and into the kitchen, where his son hovers over the stove, stirring up the savory aroma of sautéing onions.

“I brought you something,” Frank says, extending his hands.

“What’s that?” Tom says, not looking up, holding the skillet as he reads a recipe.

“Some of my sweaters. Thought you could use them. Or give them to one of your roommates.” Frank continues to stand with his arms outstretched, waiting for him to turn around.

Tom gives a quick look. “What am I going to do with your old sweaters?” he asks. He’s a good four inches taller than Frank. “Set them on the dining room table. I’ll look at them later.” The skillet steams as he adds water.

Frank turns away, not understanding his son’s impatience. When he returns, Tom’s still cooking. “Are we going for beer?” he asks, hoping there’s something he can do to be helpful.

“Jeff got it already.”

The thought of Tom’s roommate is still on Frank’s mind, and he twists up to sniff his son’s hair.

“Hey! What’re you doing?” Tom is hunched over to avoid the range hood, but now his head bangs it firmly. “Ouch!” he bellows, rubbing the top of his scalp.

“You all right? Let me see.” Frank reaches for his son’s head.

“No!” Tom clasps the wooden spoon between his red apron and Frank. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I was smelling if you smoked weed. Your roommate reeks of it.”

“And if I was?”

“Totally your business,” Frank says, backing off. “But you’re in college. You should think about how it might affect your studies.” He gives his son a meaningful look. He doesn’t think Tom would put his grades at risk, but the question is Frank’s way of showing he cares. He reaches for his wallet. “Since you won’t take it for beer, let me give you some money for food.” He pushes two twenties at his son.

“Thanks.” Tom looks at him as if he’s crazy, but that’s the look he usually gives Frank. He stuffs the cash in his pocket. “If you want to help,” he says, and opens two cans of beans, “there’s a bag of lights by the front door. Would you mind stringing them across the porch?”

Frank shrugs and heads through the warm, inner room to the living room. While he searches through the bag, Tom’s roommate Ken offers to help.

They’re untangling a light cord on the porch when the other roommate, holding two red cups, joins them. “Here, Mr. C. Would you like a beer?” Jeff asks, watching Frank.

Frank takes the cup and raises it in a toast. Though he meant to gently bump the cup rims, his move is too fast, more like a collision, and beer spills over Jeff.

“Sorry, sorry!” Frank cries. His instinct is to find something to towel Jeff’s arm, but he’s such a klutz. Any move will only worsen the situation.

“No worries.” Jeff shakes his arm. “I won’t melt!” The young men laugh. They’re without jerseys or jackets but no one complains about the cold as they search the posts for existing nails and hooks to drape the light cords. They talk about their professors, the dread of early morning classes, the local music scene, bands they’ve seen and those coming to town. By the time they finish hanging the lights, Frank’s feeling a little buzzed from the beers and the banter.

He steps into the yard for a look. There’s a numbing melancholy that comes with the shortened days of autumn, but the bright lights give a cheerful glow to the porch, much like the carousel at a carnival. In his loopy, sentimental state, Frank sees the radiance as a reflection of his camaraderie with the young men, of the promise of youth and all the energy and generosity that comes with it.

It’s a feeling that accompanies him inside where Tom ferries bowls, spoons and plates to the dining room table.

“You work too hard,” Franks says. It’s just the two of them. He crosses his arms and leans against a counter by the stove, his son’s presence adding to his sense of satisfaction.

“Lots to do,” Tom says, coming back into the kitchen. “Easier to go to a party than throw one.”

They both laugh. As his son’s eyes meet his, Frank is gripped by how handsome Tom is when he smiles. His son has an innate goodness that shines through at such moments, as if the essence of his nature has percolated to the surface, adding color to his cheeks, lightening his eyes. Frank has seen the promise and empathy in Tom since he was a young boy. Though not the perfect father, Frank has done everything possible to nurture him and his sisters, to make their childhoods comfortable and satisfying. Times like this convince him to never stop trying, never quit loving.

Just then his phone pings. It’s a text from Kitten. As Tom watches, he cautiously reads her message. She’s met with her attorney and has a question about his pension.

I tell her about a visit with our son, and she writes back about a damn meeting with her divorce lawyer? Where are her priorities?

“Something wrong, Dad?”

“No, nothing.” Frank take a deep breath. He doesn’t want to spoil the moment. “Just a text from work. Something’s up, but it can wait until Monday.”

“Glad it’s nothing serious,” Tom says. His concern quickly gives way to duty. Excusing himself, he grabs cups and takes them into the dining room. Struggling, Frank wonders if Kitten’s question is meant to disrupt his weekend, to steal his one bit of enjoyment. His bitterness is tough to hide. But fortunately, Tom is too busy with his party preparations. When he returns, he asks Frank to stir the chili. Then he and his roommates move furniture to the side of the living room while Frank grates the spoon about the skillet.

Around eight their friends start to arrive. Frank meanders around a guy in blue jeans and a young woman in a little black dress and settles into a beanbag chair behind a Goodwill coffee table to sip his beer. It’s a good position to watch the shuffling of boots, trail shoes and platform heels and the conversations. A young woman in a jumper talks about internships, who’s hiring, job prospects in Denver and a friend who landed a position in L. A. He gets a kick out of it, wants to tell her to forget the fretting about jobs, that no amount of planning will make a difference. He smirks loud enough that she looks down, gives him a deadpan look and laughs, as if she’s overheard his thoughts. She’s pretty, petite and has beautiful auburn hair, slender shoulders and taut, luminescent skin that’s a dusky olive. Frank smiles and raises his cup. She winks and turns back to her group.

Frank gets up to whiz. He’s easily the oldest person there, a fact more evident by his standing in the line of people waiting outside the single bathroom. Not wanting to be so obvious, he heads to the back porch, where guys have gone off to piss in the bushes. Leaving his cup on the flat railing, Frank strides across the yard. The ground is hard from the cold. Steam rising as he relieves himself, he looks up into the frosty darkness above a neighbor’s garage. So this is what it’s like to be 53 and single, out pissing in the shrubs, something he’d never do if Kitten were around, surrounded by people with little in common, isolated in ways he never thought possible. He shivers out the last drops and zips himself.

When he steps back into the kitchen, a big guy in a flannel shirt is pouring a round of shots. He hands one to Frank. “Nostrovia!” the guy calls. Frank downs the drink and chases it with a beer. He stays put, listening to stories about college parties and horrific hangovers, and chuckles in memory of his own exploits.

In time, he feels the need again for the bathroom. His bladder isn’t what it used to be, and he stands in queue outside the door, not sure there’s anyplace dry by the bushes.

“Is this the line?” asks the young woman Frank overheard discussing job prospects, a look of desperation straining her face.

“Go on ahead,” says Frank, motioning her forward. He’s close enough to smell the lilac in her hair. “Where’re you from?” he asks as they wait. She names a town. He had lived there while single, and he launches into a funny story about the day the bakery ran out of marble rye. She knows the place and laughs, says it still operates on a street off the square. They both rave about the scones until the bathroom door opens and she disappears inside.

When she exits, she gives a big smile. “Thanks,” she says.

“What’s your name?” Frank asks, trying to look as suave as possible while holding the bathroom door for her.

“Ellie,” she says with a wave and vanishes into the crowd.

The next time Frank sees Ellie, she’s chatting with friends. Later, she’s dancing in a circle of women, tossing her head back in laughter, her eyes catching the little light in the room. She exudes an ethereal grace like the momentary petals of an iris, on display without any pretense. Frank repeats her name to himself.

The music drowns the conversations in the living room. Frank strolls to the kitchen where he downs a shot with another group of students. He’s lost track of Tom, but it’s probably just as well. His son should know that his old man doesn’t need to be babysat, that he can take care of himself.

A short while later, Frank is leaning against the dining room wall, talking movies with Ellie.

“Have you seen ‘Bohemian Rhapsody?’” she asks above the noise. Someone reaches between them to grab from a pretzel bowl. They both pull back and smile until the arm disappears. “I love that movie,” Ellie continues. “Freddie Mercury must have been incredible. I would have loved to see him in concert.”

“Pretty amazing guy,” Frank agrees. “Caught him twice. Phenomenal entertainer. Up there with Bowie, Rick James, Iggy Pop. Do you even know who those guys are?” Frank asks, laughing.

“Of course! I have parents, too.”

Her comment isn’t meant to sting, but Frank can feel the heat in his face. He wants to tell her he’s seen Rush, Sex Pistols and others, but that will more firmly date him, so he says nothing. The party’s too loud for it to seem clumsy, and Ellie drifts back into the crowd. Soon after, she and her friends slip on their jackets. Frank’s standing near the door. She gives him a half-wave as one of her friends pushes her into the night.

A pang of jealousy nudges him as he watches her go, as if some unforeseen yet welcome muse has left him for someone else.

That’s when he sees Tom. He’s talking with a leggy woman, and his smile is like a crescent moon shining over the Chesapeake. He stands straight, shoulders back, chin high, as if he were walking a balance beam, not standing in a hallway, and Frank is reminded of the delicate act of making a first impression.

When Tom breaks away, he approaches Frank.

“How’s it going, Dad? You seem to be having a good time.”

“It’s a friendly group. If they offer me one more shot, you’re gonna have to pick me off the floor.” Frank laughs.

“No, don’t, Dad.” His son steps back, shoulders wide, hands firmly on his hips. “No more shots. You’ll get sick and vomit and embarrass me in front of my friends.”

“I’m not going to get sick,” Frank says a little too sharply. This is his son’s fear, that Frank will do something stupid or humiliating. “You don’t have to worry.”

“You shouldn’t try so hard to fit in,” Tom says, his eyes narrowing.

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“No, but you can. Never mind. Just no more shots,” Tom says. Then a young woman interrupts to ask for toilet paper, and Tom goes off to help her.

It’s not the first time his son has warned him off, like he’s some child running with knives. Am I that embarrassing, Frank wonders?

He wades through the crowd to the front porch. He draws a few deep breaths and feels the cold against his face and in his lungs. The lights they hung now seem needlessly bright and give a false hope, as if Kitten could start loving him again, or Tom take pleasure in his company.

Retreating to a dim corner, he brushes the leaves off of a table, exposing its weathered surface. For most of the night he’s been aware of how aged he is in comparison to the students. Not just the looks. It’s how he feels, knowing that life will never look as bright and hopeful, as free of fear and consequences, as it looks from their perspective.

The front door opens and some of Tom’s friends come out, chuckling and slapping shoulders. No one’s wearing a jacket, and they stand at the far side of the porch, unaware of him. Someone lights a joint and passes it around. Then one of them notices Frank and mutters that they should smoke somewhere else.

“Don’t mind me,” Frank says, inhaling the burning-rope-like smell. “I was in college once.”

“You want a hit?” says Ken, holding out the joint. He’s the roommate who answered the door. The others watch in surprise.

Frank hasn’t toked in a couple of years, but there’s nothing to prevent him. “Sure,” he says, stepping forward. He picks the joint from Ken’s fingers and puffs. His eyes squint against the smoke. It feels harsh within his lungs, but he brings the joint to his lips again before passing it back. When he empties his lungs, a cloud of smoke surrounds them in a frosty haze. The young men laugh.

Ken and his two buds talk about sports, call out the player who quit soccer to punt for the football team, of how it sucks for the small sports to compete for athletes against the giant on campus. Frank can understand their frustration, of how the scales tip in favor of the big and powerful. Then they mention the names of young women, how they’re dressed, which guys they’re with, what the chances are of getting laid. No one mentions Ellie. Frank’s happy she’s escaped their banter.

“It’s cold out here!” one guy exclaims, his shoulders hunched. And as quickly as they came, the young men, hands shoved into their pockets, slip inside.

Frank knows he smells of reefer and doesn’t want to leave the porch. Cars pass on the residential street, and he’s reminded of the unbroken pattern of people moving between locations, searching for some rightful place. And then an Uber pulls up and three women, including Ellie, jump out. They’ve been gone an hour at most. Despite the chill, their jackets are open, their scarves untied. “Hurry up!” one calls, and they storm up the sidewalk to the porch, a confederacy of young women in fashion boots.

He catches Ellie’s eye, and she waves before jostling a friend through the doorway.

Though he’s without a coat and longing to get warm, Frank waits before he follows. He doesn’t want Ellie to think he’s stalking her. As much as he relishes her company, a man his age should know better than to chase her.

Just as he steps inside, he catches the opening lamentation crying through the speakers, “Can . . . anybody find me . . . somebody to-oo . . . love?” The Queen melody feels like the calling of the runners to the start of the 1600 meters. Frank begins to sweat, his pulse to race. He looks around, wondering how to release the nervous energy that’s been building all night.

He still has it in him. He can feel it. And he’s drunk and high, his inhibitions diminishing as he hustles to the side of the room

The music builds as Frank kicks off his shoes and raises a leg to pull off his pants. He sheds his fisherman’s sweater and long-sleeve shirt, dumps them into a pile. In his leggings and thermal top, he searches for a tall, empty bottle to use as a mic. He crashes into a large guy who pushes back. Frank’s not a big man: five-ten, one hundred and sixty-five pounds.

An empty can of Red Bull will do. He grabs it and climbs onto the coffee table that’s been pushed against the wall. He finds his pitch and starts to sing, his arms and feet in synch with the rhythm as he kicks bottles and cups from under him. The groans over lost drinks turn to a frenzy of surprise as his voice rises with the melody.

Ellie stands nearby, hands on her cheeks, gleefully laughing. Frank feels the light of her attention. He channels Freddie Mercury from deep within his anxious soul. He looks around the room and back to Ellie, still by the table, her eyes flashing in wonder. He’s stirred in ways he’s not felt for far too long. He’ll sing this one for her.

His delivery is uneven, as Freddie’s range has always been difficult to replicate. Still, he wends his way through the second stanza, pausing at times to toss his head, thrusting his arm out and back, exploiting the androgyny that made Mercury so unique. The yelps and yips from the crowded room are like a fuel feeding his spirit. Mid lyric, he bends over and plants a kiss on Ellie’s head. The joy of youth!

He’s scanning the room, reading his audience when he sees Tom standing in the back. When his son shakes his head and turns, Frank has no option but to ignore whatever judgement he’s making. Instead, he bends at the waist, his torso and head swooping over those closest to him, like a fan feeding the flames. And when he rises, Tom is gone.

Frank falters, feels as if he might fall. But he’s started this and will finish it. His arms rise as his voice soars over the room, his delivery attaining a grace and buoyancy his spirit has been missing. Though the table shakes as if it might break, the room ripples with the energy lobbed between him and the onlookers. He isn’t up here just to entertain, but to reconnect with the man he was at their age. It all feels right.

As the song ends, he faces the wall, leans forward, raises his ass and twerks. When he looks around, Ellie is clapping, her hands beating as hard as his heart.

Frank drops to the carpet, pulls her into a hug and then backs up, his hands resting on her shoulders. “Thank you!” he says. His smile feels big, his head light. Releasing Ellie, he pushes through the students to his clothes. People slap him on the back and throw high fives. It’s all a bit crazy. Grabbing his pants, he stumbles forward. But a couple of strong arms reach out to steady him. He’s giddy, laughing, thanking everyone around him.

Now that his performance is over, he dresses, feels the need to disappear within the crowd. The attention is more than he can handle. He wants a drink and to find Tom.

There’s no sign of his son as Frank moves through the kitchen and onto the rear porch. But as he stands upright from the keg, beer in hand, Tom comes up the steps with one of his friends. He smells of reefer.

“Geez, Dad, that was some kind of act,” Tom says. His eyes are glazed, a tad vacant, his smile a little squirrelly, but he’s looking at Frank.

Frank’s not sure how to take him. “Yeah, well, it’s probably been twenty-five years since I did anything like that.”

“Maybe you should wait twenty-five years before trying again,” Tom says and taps a fist to his father’s shoulder. “You looked like an ass, but clearly you were having fun. That’s what the party’s about.”

Just then a big guy stumbles through the kitchen doorway, a beer cup in hand. He slaps Frank’s back as he passes.

“Nice job,” he says. “You killed it!”

Frank calls “Cheers!” and gulps from his cup. He’s glad he sang and flounced like a maniac, and relieved it’s over. He feels a smile forming, but when he turns, Tom has disappeared into the house. There’s nothing but the empty space between him and the door.

Frank collects himself, smooths his pants, straightens his sweater. He follows inside but stops at the kitchen sink. Then he rinses his cup, half fills it with water and drinks. He checks his phone. It’s after midnight. All of a sudden he feels sober and sees there’s nothing more here for him tonight.

He never got a chance to utter a word to Tom about the separation from Kitten. Had it been just the two of them at a restaurant, he’d have said something after dinner. Would have told Tom how much he loves his mother, how the split-up is killing him, of how her feelings have changed and no amount of effort on his part can resolve that.

And he would have told Tom that he loves him and that he’ll never stop caring. Frank has a choice. He can linger in the disquiet of his regrets, forever wondering where he went wrong, or share elements of his loving self with Tom while it’s still possible.

Finding his jacket and keys, Frank walks out into the cold darkness. His hotel is not that far away. If he drives slowly, he should get there okay.

On the seat beside him is the undelivered card he intended to give Tom. He picks it up, drops it on his lap and turns his eyes to the road. He lowers the window and pulls away. The air feels good against the side of his face. He reaches for the radio, but decides to leave it off. A Queen melody plays through his head and that’s enough.

 

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