Pocket Me

Apparently I’m a pocket queer!

I had never heard the term.

Then a person I had just met declares, “Oh, you’re a pocket queer!” after reading my profile.

I didn’t know whether to cyber-punch him or cyber-hug him in the chat window. Since I just met him, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and ask him to clarify.

Pocket Queer \päk ət kwir\ [gay American slang from the late twentieth century] n: a gay man less than five feet seven inches tall

I resolved to cyber-accept it. Technically, I am, being only five feet six inches tall.

This was not the first time I had been called a pocket-something. A few years ago a friend declared me “Pocket Hercules” after I carried his dining room table down three flights of stairs by myself. Honestly, it was not that large – about 40” in diameter – but it was solid wood. I just flipped it over my head and down the stairs I went.

No, I’m not that strong: the adrenaline burst allowed me to do it. Several friends and I had been drafted to help him move and they all were taking their sweet time getting everything done. I boxed and carried and kept up the pace. I didn’t care that the dish towels came from Aunt Grace in Memphis and that was funny because Graceland is located in Memphis.

Give me a job: it gets done.

While everyone else lollygagged around, my frustration mounted until it came time for the table. In a burst of “I’ll show you about being lazy,” I grabbed the table by the edges and flipped it over my head.

Thirty minutes later, the apartment was empty and cleaned and we were on the road to unloading!

And I had a new nick-name.

And now, thanks to Southern Boy, I have a new descriptor. I need to design a new shirt to go with the other one I designed.