What’s it like to live in a quirky, funky, queer-abundant, intentional community in the middle of a lush, tangled jungle? Well, for the “Hermits” of Hermitville, life is usually pretty good–play music, garden, take care of the goats and chickens, play music, make jam, sell at the Maku’u Farmers Market, garden some more, cultivate a complicated personal life, make art, put on shows for the local community, replenish the jam supply, and so on. That is, until the founder suddenly dies, noxious real estate developers want to take over, Elves appear, and the mysterious Book of Moons knows all but won’t tell all.
The books are set in a “not too distant future,” when the United States has ended its occupation of the Hawaiian Kingdom, and the lawful government is reconstituting itself in earnest. All “transplants” must now decide whether to naturalize as Kingdom subjects or return to their points of origin. The Hermits were facing this choice anyway, but with all that’s going on now, can Hermitville really survive? And–more importantly– should it?
Lucky LaFey is a new main character who appears in the third volume of The Guild of Ornamental Hermits series, The Queerest Quest of the Guild of Ornamental Hermits. This third book takes place in Lake County, CA.
Lucky LaFey is a drifter. He wears his mileage lightly though he’s travelled the roughest of roads. However his vocabulary is excellent and his manners are often soft and deferential enough to mark him as having come from “a good home.” He can say “ma’am” and “sir” without a trace of hipster irony. He’s insatiably curious. You’re as likely to find him in a small town library as you are in a big city pool hall.
Tall enough, slender but muscled, green eyes, an age that’s hard to pin down… Lucky’s been known to dye his long red hair jet black. He’s the handsome devil who breezes through town, dances in clubs, picks up odd jobs and odder people. He may break a heart or two when he leaves (but he’s never broken a family).
“What did you see in him?” (Besides that voice, those eyes, the hair, those oddly scarred lips?)
“I don’t know exactly, but I felt like he ‘got me’, ya know? He really got me!”
And she/he/they/ze will remember him for the rest of their lives.
Lucky’s a natural actor. He’s toured with regional theater companies, garnering rave reviews of his almost “chameleon-like” ability to really become the character. And yet, acting was never his passion–just another way to meet people and pass the time. He’s picked up sleight of hand tricks with coins and cards and has a rapid-fire “patter” that’s both hilarious and beguiling. But that’s just a way to win a beer or whiskey on a bet.
Because he’s handsome and his hands are clean, some have mistaken him for a hustler or a gigolo, and tried to play him that way. Yet money never changes hands when it comes to Lucky and sex. Oh, but that’s not to say there’s not a transaction involved! It might be “that ring you’re wearing,” or “my friends and I could use another round” or even, for those “lucky few,” “tattoo my name on your ass so next time I see you, I’ll know you really love me.”
And then he’s off in the night, laughing. (Someone told me once there’s a secret Reddit group for people who’ve gotten those tattoos.)
His own tattoos are faded: a snake biting its own tail on his left bicep, a wolf on his right, and over his heart, a small skull with half the face of a girl. If you could lift Lucky’s hair from the back of his neck, you’d find a tiny broken heart, but few people have ever been allowed that liberty. Lucky might let you get close, but not that close.
Sometimes you might find Lucky among the “Burners” or hopping trains with young nomads like “Sock Monkey” and “Crash.” He’s learned that people are friendlier when he sits on curbs with a kitten (he loves his animals and always finds them good homes). To hear him tell it, Lucky’s been “a ski bum, a surfer, a demolition derby racer, and a line cook at some top New York restaurants.” He claims to have been married (twice) but never talks about his wives or kids. He plays the guitar and sometimes you might find him sitting in with other musicians in some scruffy bar, or strumming it pensively, alone under a tree in a park.
Don’t offer him a cigarette when you sit down to listen. He gave it up years ago, after that trip to Tibet.
To hear him tell it, Lucky’s been everywhere and done everything. He’ll talk of having one memorable night with Janis or that time in Paris when he posed in drag for Brassai. And then he’ll look you in the eye and laugh, daring you to challenge him (“You couldn’t have! You’re not that old!”). The funny thing is, you almost believe him! He makes you want to believe…
So perhaps it was inevitable that the lanky sweet-talking drifter known as Lucky LaFey would find his way to our new Hermitville Magic and Arts Collective. I found him one morning, comfortably asleep in the hammock that hangs on our wide front porch, with only a backpack and a paperback book for company. I stared at him. He was improbable. His bright red hair caught sunbeam light and threw it back like prism sparkles. And then he yawned, opened his emerald green eyes and grinned at me. It was a look from someone much bigger than a human soul. My heart pounded and all I could think was, “Here comes trouble…”