Stetson

As a weak winter sun rises and a blustery wind sets in, a lone sleek black passenger car travels the deserted streets of the city of Chicago. A city whose population has been decimated by the aftereffects of a particularly successful bout of Christmas Eve office celebrations.

The vehicle in question rumbles past empty office buildings and the shuttered windows of homes whose residents have fled to warmer climes, and glides to a halt in front of a dark, architecturally clumsy former-residence that appears to have been converted into a public building of a bureaucratic nature.

The engine of the dangerous-looking, testosterone-inspired machine cuts out and our beloved anti-hero, a lanky, graceful, sandy-haired, dangerous-looking, testosterone-inspiring, walking wet dream, emerges from the vehicle. He casts a bleary eye at the pale sun and with a shaky hand sets a pair of what can only be called birth control blue sunglasses on his nose. A nose that is flared in an attempt to get enough oxygen into his manful system to convince his wiry body that it doesn’t want to spill whatever little remains in his rebellious stomach after his last bout of making intimate with his porcelain friend.

A particularly nasty gust of wind whips around his legs -- legs that appear to have been poured into dark, form fitting jeans. Our beloved anti-hero takes a last fortifying breath and heads for his goal, the high wooden doors of the aforementioned building. On his way past the forbidding black metal fence, he removes a piece of well-chewed, now flavorless red gum from between his full pouting lips and, without breaking stride, leaves it pressed to a large brass plate that reads in part “Canadian Consulate”.

He simultaneously knocks on the front door and winces in pain. His knocking is met with a surprisingly prompt response. The door swings silently open and a large plastic Captain Wonderful space blaster is pointed directly between our beloved anti-hero’s clouded bloodshot eyes.

A booming, resonant voice sounds off, causing a groan to be pulled from our unexpecting, beloved anti-hero’s kissable throat.

“Who dares disturb the sanctity of the Canadian Consulate?”

Our beloved anti-hero removes his glasses, places them in a convenient coat pocket and replies, “Yeah, yeah, good one Turnbull. Where’s Fraser?”

The commanding presence of one of Canada’s finest in full dress reds is immediately replaced by a stumbling, stuttering, blushing pile of fawning goo.

“Ah, Detective Kowalski, it is so good to see you. May I help you with your clothes, ahem, that is coat? Would you like some tea? Or anything else? Anything at all?” The tall muscular walking block of Swiss cheese asks hopefully.

“Yeah, Turnbull, I do want something. I want one Benton Fraser, alien and freak-about-town, to explain to me why he dragged me out of my bed by calling me on Christmas morning and insisting I meet him here before all of the greedy little crumb crushers are even out of their beds to open presents.”

As our beloved anti-hero is bitching, not whining, this Ray Vecchio doesn’t whine after all, he steps past his admirer into the festively decorated Consulate lobby. He makes it exactly two elegant strides past the reception desk when he is swept into strong arms and dipped and kissed in a most proficient and thorough manner by a pair of soft lips and almost prehensile tongue, belonging to the receiver of his tirade.

This lovely, and not altogether unwelcome, moment is interrupted by a most unfortuitous clearing of a feminine throat.

Our beloved anti-hero is returned to his full upright position, and his attacker straightens his somewhat rumpled tunic and points skyward, by way of an explanation.

“Mistletoe.”

Said attacker takes a single baleful look at his commanding officer and hightails his lovely backside to the darkened recesses of the Consulate, in search of the object of his affection’s object of interest.

The intruder maintains an outward shell of calm composure, until it is just she and our beloved anti-hero present in the wood panelled lobby. She takes in our beloved anti-hero’s adorably disheveled appearance, his rumpled clothes and swollen reddened lips, and a feral gleam forms in the recesses of her dark flashing eyes.

Our beloved anti-hero glances nervously at the mistletoe, still hanging invitingly above his head. He runs a fine-boned finger around the collar of his shirt in unconscious imitation of his boon companion and preferred partner and casts an anxious eye in the Inspector’s direction, as though he is well aware he may just have met an obstacle he can’t overcome. Not that he has any intention of trying too hard to overcome, mind you.

*

Some minutes later, our even more rumpled, swollen lipped beloved anti-hero makes his way, with an odd limping gait, to the door of he who is responsible for the morning’s hijinks.

Without bothering to knock -- he is American after all -- our beloved anti-hero opens the door of his goal’s office/residence/guest house and enters. His still painfully dry and sandy eyes are met with the divine, fantasy inspiring sight of two well-formed, in their prime, living, breathing members of Her Majesty’s Royal Canadian Mounted Police force engaged in what appears to be an ernest, intimate conversation.

Our beloved anti-hero takes in the lay of the land and mutters an expression half remembered from a documentary he was reduced to watching during a particularly nasty bout of insomnia, “Canada, a land rich in natural resources.”

Both objects of desire become aware of the admiring, if somewhat bloodshot, gaze of our beloved anti-hero at the same moment and turn two sets of clear blue eyes in his direction. Both sets of eyes linger for a moment on his poor overworked lips and then slide upward toward the ceiling.

Our beloved anti-hero follows their matching gazes. He swallows nervously and purposely steps to the left, out from under the green leafy ball swaying gently above his head. The spell is broken. Our matching set of Mountie bookends sigh in disappointment. The taller man clasps the shoulder of his elder compatriot firmly and states with great emotion, “Vive le grande coupe de ville.”

The elder man straightens his spine and nods, as though he is somehow able to comprehend this nonsensical, if well-intentioned statement.

As the taller of the two turns and leaves the tiny office/residence/guest house, he casts a final, longing glance in the direction of our beloved anti-hero, before closing the door behind himself with an air of dignity and finality.

Our beloved anti-hero speaks first.

“Okay, Frase, what the Hell’s going on here? I feel like I stepped into an episode of some freaky Canadian version of the ‘Twilight Zone’ or something. I’m nestled all snug in my bed, with visions of topless dancers jiggling in my head, and you call me down here before I’ve even had a chance to light the coal Santy left in my stocking. I walk through the door and it’s like the hormone fairy left a double helping of the hornies under everybody’s tree or something.”

“Well, Ray, you see, it’s about last night. The precinct Christmas party specifically.”

“Oh, God, I knew it. I tried to get Huey to sit on my lap and tell me all of the naughty things he did last year?”

“Not that I am aware of, Ray.”

“I did it again. I got naked and started singing Tom Jones tunes?”

“No, Ray, although that does sound most intriguing.”

“I offered to let Welsh use me for Tequila bodyshots?”

“No, Ray.”

“Well, what then, Frase? Spit it out. I can take it.”

“You see, Ray, it’s about my hat.”

“Aw, jeez, I did my imitation of a human hat rack. I’m really sorry about that Frase. I didn’t mean any disrespect or anything. It’s just that Frannie’s eggnog really packs a mean punch, and I hadn’t eaten all day, and I’m a really cheap drunk. I understand if you don’t want to wear it on your head anymore, after it was on my, well, you know, my head. So, just tell me how much I owe you for a new one. I’m good for it.”

“No, Ray, you misunderstand me. You didn’t wear it on your head. Well, you did, but not on your, oh dear. What I’m trying to say is that you wore my hat, on your head, the head on your shoulders, that is. Yes, that’s it. You wore my hat at a social gathering. You took my hat off of my head and placed it on your -- head -- while we were at a party.”

Our beloved anti-hero looks at Fraser in disbelief. When he speaks, his words are laced with an undertone of hurt and disappointment.

“That’s it? That is it? You call me all the way down here on Christmas morning. Not that I celebrate Christmas morning, but that’s beside the point. You call me down here on Christmas morning, with your panties in a bind, because I wore THE HAT. What did I do? Break some kind of Mountie taboo? I, a non-Mountie, evil unworthy American wore THE HAT, so now you got to burn it in some kind of weird Canadian ritual? Or do you burn me at the stake, instead? I know the hat is sacred, but this is a little much, even for your freak mind.”

“Oh dear, I was afraid of this. You misunderstand me, Ray. I was sure you wouldn’t know, but Turnbull was so insistent . . . There has obviously been a miscommunication. I apologize, Ray. Please, let me wish you a happy Holiday, and I’ll walk you to your car.”

“That’s it? That’s all of the explanation you’re going to give me? I brave the attention of Thatcher in the Land of Mistletoe, and you’re gonna walk me to my car? I don’t think so, buddy boy. I want the truth. The whole unblemished Mountie truth, and I ain’t moving ‘til I get it.”

And having made up his notoriously erratic mind, our beloved anti-hero crosses his lovely forearms over his chest in a classic defensive posture and plants himself on Fraser’s mercurially tidy desk.

“Ah, you see, ahem, well, that is to say, it’s really quite silly. In fact, I’m sure once I tell you, we’ll have a good laugh about the whole thing.”

He smiles weakly at our beloved anti-hero, but gets only a pair of raised eyebrows in response.

“Well, your explanation. Of course, you see, Ray, among the members of the RCMP there is a tradition. It dates back to, actually, I’m not sure when it dates back to. It’s an unwritten tradition. These things usually are. Truthfully, it’s an unspoken tradition. At least, I’ve never spoken of it with anyone, until now, heh, ahem.

“It’s simply one of those things that one gains an awareness of, as they become enmeshed in the culture of the RCMP, through observation of others practicing the informal ritual, if you will.

“Although, I have been made to understand that it is a tradition not observed solely by the RCMP. It is, apparently, quite common among those of the American Southwest who follow the cultural norms of what is most often termed ‘The Cowboy Way’. In fact, there are certain folklorists who maintain that it developed among the cowboys and migrated, along with the rodeo, northward, until it finally reached and was adopted by the members of the RCMP.

“So, you see, now that we’ve cleared up that little misunderstanding, I’ll just see you to your car, and you can go back to celebrating -- whatever it is you celebrate.”

In response, our ever-logical, beloved anti-hero pulls a lighter out of his coat pocket and hold it to a small picture frame propped up on a prominent shelf of Fraser’s RCMP manual-filled bookcase.

“Fraser, you have exactly ten seconds to tell me what the Hell you’re talking about or I’m going to burn this picture of the Queen.”

“Ray, surely even you, with your well-deserved reputation for emotional outbursts and acting without thinking, wouldn’t take such cruel unwarranted action.”

Our beloved anti-hero’s only response it to depress the button on his Zippo, sending a cheery yellow blue flame in the general direction of the Queen’s updo.

In the face of such a brutal onslaught, Fraser’s legendary composure is broken and he blurts out the horrible, ugly truth.

“When you took my hat and put it on your head, it was a public declaration to all present that you belong to me in every way.”

The lighter flickers out, and our beloved anti-hero responds suspiciously.

“Every way. What do you mean, every way?”

When Fraser hesitates, the lighter again springs to life.

“It means you and I are emotionally involved and sexually active with one another.”

The lighter is tossed carelessly on the floor and our beloved anti-hero invades Fraser’s personal space in a most distracting and predatory manner.

“So Frase, you called me down here ‘cause you want me to have a little talk with Thatcher and Turnbull and straighten things out. Is that it?” our beloved anti-hero asks, his lips hovering mere centimeters from the vulnerable skin covering his partner’s throat.

Fraser clears said throat and answers in an uncharacteristically breathy voice, “Not exactly.”

“You’re breathing kinda heavy there, Frase. What did you call me down here for then --- exactly?”

Fraser proceeds, with a most characteristic attention to detail, to show his beloved anti-hero what he called him to the consulate for -- exactly.

*

Inspector Thatcher looks up from her desk, distracted by the loud ecstatic moaning emanating from the office/residence/guest house located directly behind her own elegantly decorated office. Her eyes take on a dreamy glaze for a moment. When she refocuses, her gaze reaches past the open door of her office and falls on the large, pleasing form of her most subordinate officer, who is innocently vacuuming the tasteful Oriental rug covering the lobby floor -- directly underneath a large ball of red ribboned mistletoe.

Inspector Thatcher straightens her lanyard and her hair and rises purposefully from her chair.

The End