A Cure for Hiccups

by Steve Myers

I’d tried everything – all the usual remedies: holding my breath, drinking from the wrong side of a cup of water, getting someone to go ‘Boo’ to shock me out of it, but nothing helped.

‘Try a spoonful of vinegar,’ said mum, ‘That’s supposed to work.’

Well, all I got out of that one was acid indigestion and a healthy loathing  for pickled onions.

 I thought I’d better not go to the Christmas party, because there’s nothing worse then trying to talk to someone and suddenly sounding like a demented parrot. I could just see myself trying to look interested whilst holding my breath, then bursting out with the sound of a cat being skewered.

 In the end, I thought to hell with it. And that’s how I met Gray.

 It was Brenda’s fault.  She likes nothing better than to introduce people that she thinks will turn out to be lifelong partners and friends, and to do the whole hostess bit. Most of us wish she wouldn’t. It’s difficult to describe her. She’s not so much fag hag as uber social secretary for what she likes to call ‘me wee clan’. And she’s not even Scottish.  She has money, which she has inherited from some great aunt (gender not specified), and she sees herself as a combination of Dorothy Parker, Noel Coward and Patsy Stone. Moet & Condom.

 Her parties are always lavish, but there are only so many olives and beautifully designed canapés you can choke down without drinking so much alcohol you end up sozzled by nine.

 His given name was Graham, but he’d decided Gray sounded cooler, so I said my name was really Stefano but everyone called me Ste. He seemed impressed.

‘That’s a nice name.’

‘Runs in the family,’ I said, drinking more from the crystal champagne flute with my own little gold Christmas ‘this is your glass’ attachment.

‘Are you hiccupping?’

‘Yes, sorry about that. I’ve had them all day. Don’t seem to be able to shift them.’

‘Come here.’

He reached out and gripped my shoulders firmly. Before I knew what was happening he pressed his thumbs firmly into my chest, just under my shoulder blades. The deeper he pressed, the more the pain, but after a minute doing this he let go.

‘I’m all for getting to know someone,’ I said, ‘But what the hell was that?’

‘Think about it. Do you still have the hiccups?’

I suddenly realised that I didn’t.

‘How did you do that?’

‘I dunno – it was taught to me by a friend who’s into all that holistic crap – you know: Reike can cure you from across the world: Bach Flower Remedies, where you might just as well suck on a doc leaf for all the good they do; getting in touch with your inner bitch etc. I don’t know about most of it, but she did this once to me and it worked. I suppose there’s some pressure on the lungs or something. Enjoy the champagne!’

We clinked glasses, smiled and then the alcohol and small talk turned into something more intimate. We shared a few of our deeper feelings, shared some of our memories, laughed a lot and ended up sharing a bed back at mine. He was handsome, sweet and the sheets were a mess by the next morning.

 I’m not trying to make excuses, by the way. One-night stands aren’t really my thing; it must have been a combination of the wine and conversation. I thought that would be it. I made it very clear that it had been a wonderful night, but that was it. I wasn’t ready for any kind of serious relationship. Not after what had happened before.

 Then the phone calls started.

 ‘Hi it’s Gray. Want to meet for a drink?’

‘Oh hello, Gray. This is a surprise.’

‘Well we had such a great time the other night, I thought we might get together again.’

‘Gray, I thought we had an understanding. It was a great night and you’re a very nice guy, but it was just one night. We agreed.’

There was silence. Then he said, ‘Does that mean we can’t still be friends?’

‘No, of course not. I like you. You’re sweet, funny and very cute. I just want to make sure you’re not getting the wrong end of the stick. I’m not looking for a serious relationship right now.’

‘Oh right; you’re afraid of commitment.’

What was he on about? We’d been through this. ‘Gray, you know very well that commitment is not the problem. I told you about Daniel. We were very happy and faithful to each other. We were together for eleven years. I miss him like crazy and I don’t want anyone else. Every so often I need to let myself go, and I do.’

‘Just sex then.’

‘Yes, but not anonymous, and only every so often. I want friends, Gray, I don’t want a replacement for Daniel.’

‘Why not? You can’t live alone forever.’

‘Well for now I choose to.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, Gray, it’s a shit world in which Daniel stood out. A shit world that thinks stabbing someone for the contents of his wallet is okay. A shit world in which his parents disowned him and wouldn’t even let me attend his funeral.’

‘That would never happen to us.’

I hung up. The tears started and I let them flow. Ten minutes later the phone rang again. I left the machine to pick up.

 Only a few seconds later did the chilling realisation come to me that I’d never actually given Gray my number.

 From then on, it got worse. There’d be phone calls every day. It got to the stage where screening was the norm; I daren’t answer. The messages were pleading, cajoling, funny, needy; then the odd veiled threat. Nothing too graphic or menacing, but enough to make me realise I needed to nip this in the bud somehow.

 How he’d got my address was obvious, since I’d brought him home, so the letters that started coming were less of a surprise. And the cards. And the presents. Gifts of Love he called them. There was a mix CD first of love songs that were actually some of my favourites, then another one about love gone wrong: all sorts of melancholy torch songs beloved of gay men the world over. I wondered how he knew about my favourite songs, then realised that several of the CDs in my collection weren’t there.

  It wasn’t until the flowers started coming at work that I went to the police. The guy at the station was less then sympathetic.

‘So this guy that you only know the first name of, don’t know where he lives, met at a party, took home and had sex with – a one-night stand, by the way – is now harassing you by sending you flowers, presents, cards and trying to ask for another date?’

‘But he’s stalking me! And I’m sure the organiser of the party will be able to let you have his last name and stuff. How did he know where I worked?’

‘The organiser of the party, by any chance? Do you have hard evidence that he’s stalking you? Has he turned up on your doorstep, followed you, made any actual threats?’

‘But that ‘s not the point!’

‘On the contrary, sir. There’s a difference between infatuation and stalking. Do you have any threatening messages?’

‘No! I erased them.’

‘These cards and letters?’

‘I threw them away.’

‘So what do you expect us to do?’ His tone softened. ‘Listen, if he does anything at all, contact us but the way it is at the moment, we just can’t help. Why not contact him and tell him again how you feel, and if he doesn’t take no for an answer you’ll apply for a restraining order?’

 I realised I was on a hiding to nothing. I gave in in the end and invited Gray round. He arrived immaculately dressed and clutching a bottle of expensive red wine. He was just as handsome as I remembered and the broad smile on his face set off the glint in his eyes.

‘I knew you couldn’t resist me,’ he said and planted a big kiss on my lips. I pushed him away gently.

‘Hey, Gray. Nice to see you too! Take it easy. Let’s go through and open this.’

We went to my front room and I went to the kitchen and found a corkscrew. A couple of glasses later and we’d both relaxed.

 As it turned out the evening was perfect. I had prepared some fillet steak and my best attempt at dauphinoise potatoes. As we ate, I asked him how he’d got my phone number.

‘Oh you’ve got one of those modern ones. I just had to push a couple of buttons, then write it down.’

‘Very clever.’

I took another mouthful of steak and chewed, watching him do the same. ‘But how did you know where I worked? The flowers were lovely by the way, but you must have spent a fortune.’

‘Oh I don’t mind. You can’t take it with you. I followed you to work once, found out what department you worked in and the rest, as they say, is history.’

I took another forkful of food and ate it slowly, then poured out the rest of the bottle of red he’d brought.

‘So, Gray,’ I said, ‘What are you expecting from tonight?’

‘Well it’s not just tonight, is it? This is a new start for us. I love you, Ste.’

‘Have you finished eating? Let me clear these plates away.’

‘Can I help?’

‘No, you’ve done enough already. I’ll get us something else to drink.’

I stood up and the food repeated on me.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve got the hiccups again!’

‘No, just the rich food. Sorry.’

‘No worries. Hurry back.’ He flashed that smile again and I kind of froze.

 I mixed us both a cocktail. I wasn’t sure where this might go from here. I prepared dessert – my homemade cheesecake with flavoured mascarpone. I took the plates through and went back for the margaritas.

‘Wow, Ste, you’re spoiling me.’

‘Enjoy. But Gray, you know we discussed this ‘us’ thing.’

‘But that was then. Daniel was then. This is now, Ste. You have to move on. It’s a brand new start for us. You know we’re made for each other. We’ll be together forever.’

 In a strange way we always will be. As I took a sip from my glass and he downed his in almost one go, I was very interested to see the effects of a little strychnine masked with tequila and salt. The convulsions started about ten minutes into his cheesecake and were not dissimilar to hiccupping, except then he started to drool a little. He tried to stand, but couldn’t. It took quite a while actually for it all to end, enough time for me to open another bottle of wine and have a few glasses. Eventually, he slumped over the dinner table and I felt free. I guess I found my own cure for hiccups.

 Of course there was the little matter of getting rid of the body, but that’s what the shiny new spade’s for. And I have a big garden.  

Steve Myers

‘I’ve wanted to be a writer ever since I learned to read. I’ve been published – educational books for children about social issues. But fiction is my passion. I’m a freelance educational consultant and a 48-year-old gay man. My writing ranges from comical to dark. I’ve been with the same guy for 21 years and hate prejudice of every sort. I nearly died last year, when I fell down a flight of stairs and was in a coma for weeks. Since then I just think it’s time to get on with it, because you never know.’ 

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