Faggots (19 page)

Bilbo was their yardstick. Bilbo the Drugged. This little cuteness from William and Mary, a concert pianist of astounding gifts who never practiced, unemployed, thirty-five, as were they all, round and about, if Bilbo was still standing, there was hope yet for them all.

And Mikie, dear Mikie, sandy, perky, bubbling, questing, never finding, Fred’s Rolexed Mikie III, their flower child, their twinky, their Berkeley half-architect drop-out now driving trucks, fearful, but of exceptionally good heart and soul, now banging his tambourine, the mastery of which was to be his project for the summer.

Tarsh, never missing a beat of music, filled a balloon with a hiss from a cartridge of laughing gas, just like the dentists used, and sucked it all into his lungs.

No support from the brotherhood, Fred thought. Well, I’m happy. I’m trying. You can all stay single if you want to. But not me.

Then Gatsby, his friend, his fellow writer, his fellow waiter for his own true love, opened his eyes and smiled at Fred and said to him: “I’m glad.”

Back down on those docks, also on a scouting expedition, were Leather Louie and Lance Heather. You will recall Lance as the rejected suitor of Randy Dildough, back in those hissing-snake days. He is still looking particularly good, a taller Alan Ladd, and he has just been accepted as a part-time instructor at Columbia in its Linguistics Department, where he will also work on his doctorate, hence requiring a change from West Coast to East. He’s also hoping to pick up where he left off with his old partner in reptiles. But Randy had not returned the several phone calls to his New York Marathon office.

Leather Louie, dark, twinklingly sinister, hooded-eyed as ever, was, as always, a vision in shiny black and studded hides. He and Lance had recently met at the Eagle’s Nest and recognized in each other the signs of the true cultist. They had of course not made love, since both desired to crack the whip, but they’d exchanged tales of scenes rampant, scenes triumphant, scenes wide-screened, Technicolored, multidenominational, and had decided to throw in their motorcycle gloves together. This evening was such a togetherness.

They were jointly seeking a special victim to audition at Louie’s Dakota-eaves apartment, wherein, in the extra bedroom reserved for torture, now resided a brand-new stock-cum-gallows, recently arrived along with its attachments allowing for electrically, battery, or manually operated peccadilloes to please most occasions, all purchased at moderate cost, and via the
Avocado’
s helpful “New and Useful Products for the Home” column, from San Francisco’s Abused Furniture Boutique.

This special victim, lucky fellow, would be auditioned for a special performance at tomorrow’s special opening of The Toilet Bowl.

They were about to meet such a victim.

Back at Capriccio, Boo Boo Bronstein danced alone. Since he didn’t know anybody, dancing partners were no problem. He could stand in the middle of the whirling pack, glue his feet firmly to the wood, then sway and gyrate, later even Rockette kick and double turn, in his drug-high way, eyes closed of course, and pretend they were all, every one of them, his dancing partners!

Following the momentous announcement on the evening news, Boo Boo had written his note in rough draft. “Two beefy swarthy burly fat and dangerous men want one million dollars through my mail slit or else they’ll communicate all to Walter Cronkite.” Only a first draft, of course. Perhaps I’ll improve later on my prose.

Then he’d figured out his plan: I’ll lock myself in my loft. And Abe will stick the millions through the mail slot. And when he and the police finally break down the door, the beefy swarthy burly fat and dangerous men, and the million, will be gone. Then they’ll untie me. I’ll be safe. With my one million!

Is it too naïve to think that such a simple plan could work?

Then he’d augmented his Certyn and Dringe with his Festinate, stared for a long while at the wondrous patterns in a crystal door-knob, then gone to the Grand Union and purchased four hundred dollars’ worth of stock-up goods to last through a long siege.

The only question that remained was when to purvey the hot potato now residing in his back left Levi pocket to his Pop.

Dance on, oh Richie, till your fortune comes!, he thought, ungluing his feet and executing his first triple turn of the night, I am the most handsome Number, my workout has worked out!, squinting his eyes open just a crack to see if his gifted choreography might just have drawn an admiring glance or two.

And so they dance, our friends, in various circlets of together or alone.

Patty arrived, in white tie and tails, to join Laverne dancing with Maxine, now Elizabeth Taylored from head to toe, batting his eyebrows neath turban, testing: one-two-three-four, wanting to talk but impossible to manage words and maraschino-ed lipstick synch, but watching Patty’s glances dart around and come to rest upon Juanito’s booth. So the rumors Maxine had tried not to hear were true! And yes the moment of doom was near! And here, in our competitor’s space. And can I pull myself up to Catty Tin Roof Heights!

Laverne looked at his two best friends. Again he suspected there was trouble and he wondered why he couldn’t reach out and offer succor. But to which one? And where was Robbie Swindon who said he’d meet him here? And where was Dinky, whose postcard from Savannah just received this afternoon had said the same? And how would he, Jack Humpstone, handle said convergence? And when would calm come after storm instead of thunder?

Fred never stopped looking for Dinky to appear, from out of the shadows, across a crowded room, back into his arms, and away we go: into the moonlight, into Life! Around him danced so many chapters of his past. Early tricks, late tricks, so many tricks, No More Tricks!, faces from the streets and tubs and dancings, Mikie III, do three Rolexes make a tradition?, the Coty Hall of Fame, the only major star who’s missing is Feffer, and Dinky, too, of course, hurry up, Dinky!, what’s that crazy song they’re playing?, something about…no!? shit in Alabama?…, have I committed the Cardinal Fairy Sin with Dinky: said I’m hungry, said I love you?, no, he’s too together, why on our first date he said about his parents, “They did the best they could with what they had and at that time,” no, he’s too together, he’ll explain everything, I feel good!

Fred and his housemates stood by the punch bowl. Frigger, on leave of absence from the streets, but still competitive in such matters indoors, and checking to see that his rock-hard midriff was showing, watched as Fallow, adjusting Korean shorts, walked over to a cutie and began to Make An Impression.

“My, Fallow certainly moves quickly,” Frigger said.

Dom Dom agreed. “With a speed approaching Concorde’s boom.”

“Can true love bloom in the Ghetto?” Josie sighed, wiping his bald head in annoyance that sweat could sweat even here.

Bilbo lurched and contributed: “My new definition of jaded is when you find a cock that’s too big.”

“No,” said Frigger. “It’s when conquest is our own reward.”

“But,” Tarsh, their bellwether reminded them, “conquest
is
our own reward.”

The crazy song grew louder as Jacente took over the co-pilot’s seat. Yes, it was about shit in Alabama! “The Alabama Aw Shits—trouble and strife, you got ’em, all of your life, and you pass ’em on to me…”

The singer was none other than Miss Yootha Truth.

Fred spied Dinky, sneaked up behind him, put his arms around him from the back, turned him around as romantically as he could, and kissed him on the lips.

“It’s so good seeing you again!” Cary at last with Irene, or better, Katharine Hepburn!

“Unh,” said Dinky, disengaging, his eyes upon a coupling just adjacent. “Yes, well, how you been…?”

Dinky was wearing nice gray flannels and an Italian print shirt plus leather-tasseled moccasins and he looked most handsome and distinctly dressed unlike anyone else. Even his golden earring seemed to twinkle and his black beard seemed more neat.

“Fine, just fine. And better for seeing you.”

“Well, that’s good, that’s good. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

I forgot he doesn’t like displays of affection in public, Fred reminded himself as he watched Dinky walk over to where two men were themselves kissing hello. Fred wondered who they were. Fred also felt a sudden little tidge of hunger.

“You guys didn’t waste much time,” Fred thought he heard Dinky say.

“I got your postcard from Savannah,” the one who was Laverne replied. “Who’s the lucky lady in Savannah?”

“Hi, Dinky,” the other kisser, Robbie Swindon, cheerfully added, his arm still around his Jack.

“Robbie’s love is just the kind I always wanted,” Laverne said. “The kind you never obliged me with. He’s most devoted.”

Fred looked behind him on the buffet table to see if the donuts were out yet. When in doubt, eat donuts. Don’t look. Don’t listen. Eat donuts.

And Laverne’s lips reached over and Robbie’s lips obliged them.

Dinky grabbed them, two bodies, lips and all, and pulled them apart, the lover-who-had-left-him and the Other Woman, and then the three of them became entangled in arms and punches and grunts, bodies and arms and pressures exerted ineffectually in wrong directions, so that Laverne fell to the floor and Robbie bent to pull him up and Fred sighted and reached for and ate in one gulp one glazed-with-honey donut, not his favorite, but no chocolate ones in sight, and Dinky tried to slug, was it Robbie or Laverne or two for the price of one?, and at this perfect moment Patty, black tails flapping in his wake, rushed up, sighted, at last, Laverne, down on the floor, fell to kneel beside him and, oblivious to what he might be interrupting, hissingly whispered: “Listen! I’m sick of it all, so here!” And he pressed some keys into Laverne’s hardly waiting hand.

“I’m doing it! I’m doing it right now!” Patty continued hissing. “I’ve had enough of Maxine and his Elizabeth Taylor. I want a man! Juanito is waiting for me, we’re going away for a few days, here’s the keys to Balalaika, please mind the store till I get back!”

And he then jumped up and ran away.

Dinky had also retreated. Fred pushed through some fellow punch-y donut eaters and caught up with him. “Hey. Er…I guess this isn’t the moment for a romantic reunion.”

Dinky stopped, looked around at the huge crowds milling all about, many of whom had no doubt witnessed his embarrassing fightlet, then hitched up his Italian print shoulders and faced Fred. “I’ve got this terrible sinus headache. I better go home and inhale some steam.”

“How about some champagne and your favorite ladyfingers from France? A welcome-home present for you waiting to be claimed on Washington Square.”

“That’s nice. That’s nice. You going to The Toilet Bowl tomorrow night?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you there. We’ll talk there. We’ll have our reunion tomorrow night.”

“Want to give me a clue what’s bothering you? Ann Landers has a great shoulder.”

“Tomorrow. We’ll talk tomorrow. Got to go. You’re looking good.” And Dinky pecked Fred’s cheek and would have walked away.

But Cary had his arms around Kate’s waist again. “Hey, remember…, I wrote you a letter…, and, er, the last thing that I said to you…?”

“What was that?”

Fred approached the subject gingerly. “I said, most poetically, after a wonderful night of…I said I’m in love with you.”

The music seemed momentarily to have stopped its tune. Instead came slowly dragging chugging chordal “jungle music,” Fred liked to call it, impossible to dance to and beloved by those on Downs, Neldies, Paradexes, Ovlomoves, Frankensteinian plodders with heavy-soled feet as sole anchors to earth, “A Down is an Up when you’re dancing,” was Bilbo’s explanation, its insistent whining one-note pounding, as if to say to all: I am alone, I am alone, I am all alone.

“No, you’re not,” Dinky said, pecking Fred’s cheek a second kiss and smiling merrily and successfully walking away.

Bo Peep had seen it all. The little blond-haired angel, fully understanding, for hadn’t he had it all so many times with Tarsh?, rushed up and embraced his housemate, Fred.

“Oh, Fred, I understand! It’s the oldest story in the world.”

“What story is that?” Fred tried to play it cool.

“Dinky knife you?” Frigger said arriving. “I heard he was here. Well, don’t start playing Philip in
Of Human Bondage.”

“He’s not feeling well…” Fred tried to make excuses.

“Ah, what happened to courtship?” Josie asked, arriving, too, with Dom Dom, word certainly had spread fast. “You didn’t want to give yourself to just anyone who’d walk out the very next morning.”

“Who wants to stay past the next morning?” Bilbo asked, arriving next.

“I’m still here, darling,” Dom Dom said to Josie. “We’ve weathered the worst.”

“When does the best begin?”

Fred looked again for donuts, where were the chocolate donuts?, he felt the approaching of an Attack.

“Anyone got an Up?” asked Bilbo.

Dom Dom said to Josie: “Excuse me, but I want to check out a number.” He patted Josie’s head. Then Fred’s.

“You see?” said Josie, gazing after him. “True love can bloom in the Ghetto.”

A new voice was heard: “How are you all, my dearies! Are we having a good time?”

It was the Divine Bella, Bertram Bellberg, tall and stocky, grinning face and expectant eyes, his enormous chest and back Brillo-ed with hair curlicuing out of his workman’s overalls and with a huge felt sunflower smiling from his cleavage. “Fred Lemish, are you having a good time?”

“I don’t think so, Bella.”

“Well, you simply must, you absolutely must. Life is passing us by. Don’t go and fall in love. Bella warned you. Everyone warned you. You just won’t listen. Bela believes that what we most want out of life is our good times. As Richard Burton said to Deborah Kerr in
Night of the Iguana,
there are two levels where we can lead our lives. The real and the fantastic. We have to disco and drug and fuck if we want to live fantastic! Come, my dearies, let’s dance!”