Monkey Suits (30 page)

Expecting to see him at ACT UP meetings, Lee had even polished a lame apology, not that he felt Cal deserved one. But Cal hadn’t shown up for weeks.

Having found an entirely new group of people with opinions and plans, he put the apology aside. Marcos had been right. The parties, both paid catering work, and guest-listed invites to nightclubs, had picked up, which more often resulted in invitations to stay over with other guys, or a dawn PATH ride home. Lee’s life had begun to be almost completely nocturnal.

Then he saw Cal, in an actual pool in the basement of a school on the Lower East Side that, until anything else better funded came along, was resurrected as a nightclub.

Lee had kissed two guys, boyfriends of a sort, who’d made their invitation clear. Across the pool, Lee spotted Cal, and briefly, as if to display his status, defy jealousy, and move on, they walked toward each other, meeting at the center.

“Hey.” He kissed Cal. He sensed the other guys at the pool’s edge looking on. “I’m really sorry.”

“No, this one’s mine.”

“Okay. We need to like, share ourselves if I’m gonna keep you my friend, right?”

“That’s a good idea,” Cal said.

“You are the guy I want most.”

“Now?”

“Well, maybe after those two.”

“When you’re done, send ‘em my way.”

Lee considered inviting Cal, but took the cautious route. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

“How about the day after? Otherwise we’ll still be wanting to gossip about what we’re doing tonight.”

“Who we’re doing.”

One of the other things they later talked about was how to make a living doing something else. That seemed inevitable.

After avoiding Monday night catering work, Lee had actually typed a new resumé on Cal’s computer. They’d gone out, had lunch, or sex, or not had sex. It was completely undefined and felt strange and different.

Standing in shorts and a white T-shirt, brushing off his tux in Kevin Rook’s apartment, he definitely felt different, but welcome. He was also a nervous wreck.

“Listen, I don’t care who leaked it. That’s to be expected.” Carissa stood at Kevin’s full-length closet door mirror to fasten her tie.

“It’s just more publicity,” Kevin added, as he walked back from the bathroom. The five other waiters –Carissa, Lee, David, David and Bob– finished changing into their work tuxes, their backpacks in various spots around Kevin’s small living room. His shelves were crowded with books, records, and piles of magazines. A few bold ACT UP posters graced the walls, as well as some art prints, including a movie poster of Brad Davis in
Querelle
.

“But they got it wrong. Nobody said anything about throwing blood,” one of the Davids said.

“Robert Goldstein did,” Bob noted.

“He was joking,” Kevin explained. “Besides, he’s not in the affinity group. He needs to keep his job.”

“Which means he might tell Fabulous,” Carissa warned.

“Robert wouldn’t do that. I trust him.”

“How many people are gonna be outside?” Lee wondered aloud.

“Probably about forty or fifty.”

“Not a big action.”

“But big press.” Kevin assured.

“High impact, low budget.” Bob added as he buttoned his shirt.

“Did you hear?” Carissa said. “They’re dedicating the benefit to ‘the late Drew Van Sully.’”

“When did he die?” Lee asked.

“Yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Kevin grumbled. “He’d spit on all of us if he were still alive, the rightwing toady. Do you know he read poems at Reagan’s birthday?”

“I worked at his reelection dinner,” said one of the Davids.

Kevin burst out laughing. “Tell him what you called it!”

The David blushed. “Zelig does Nuremberg.”

As Lee laughed with everyone else, the flyers he’d slipped under his tux jacket plopped to the floor.

Kevin picked them up. “Didn’t you re-sew the lining like I said?”

“No, I–”

“Here.” Kevin turned Lee around, stuffing the small stack of fact sheets between Lee’s shirt, suspenders, and tux pants. He gave Lee a light pat on the ass and the two exchanged a flirting glance. Maybe after this daring action Kevin would consent to a date. Lee hoped he would. Forced out of catering, he would have to make a change, if he could only find the guts to jump into that pool.

“So, what are we calling ourselves?” Carissa asked to no one in particular.

“What do you mean?” Bob asked.

“You know, our affinity group.”

Lee thought a moment, then blurted out, “ACTUX.”

Through the ensuing laughter, Kevin smiled, “What’s it stand for?”

A David answered for him, “The AIDS Coalition To Undermine eXcess.”

“Perfect!”

A flurry of bad acronym jokes led Kevin to ask for a little order. “Okay, so we’re clear who takes which stations when the Mayor starts talking?” They’d gone over the plans at two other meetings over the last week, but he wanted it all to go swiftly.

“Am I on the left or the right of the podium?” Lee asked.

Kevin sighed. “Let’s go over it again one more time.”

They pored over the enlarged photocopied map of the Metropolitan Museum rotunda. Carissa whistled the theme from
The Bridge on the River Kwai.

“I’m sick of waiting for you. We’re late!” Ed shouted at the bathroom door, glaring at the blurred image of Brian through the shower curtain.

“Where’s Ritchie?” Brian called out.

“He left half an hour ago. I’m leaving.”

“Then go,” Brian shouted back. “I know how to get there.”

“Fine!”

Ed slammed the door closed, clutching his bag as he tromped down the stairs. Brian hadn’t even picked up his tux from the cleaners. Ed had had to nag him to get it cleaned again, despite the clots of dried food on the sleeves. Well, this was it. He could take care of himself. Ed wasn’t going to lose money over it, not with a student loan to pay off.

“How are we doing, ladies?” Trish Fuller loomed over the table where two women from the benefit committee were busily rearranging the seating arrangements. A young prim brunette slowly pored over rows of beige place cards, each name scripted in calligraphy.

“We’re working with the list as of three o’clock,” said the other woman.

“Call the office again at five.”

“Oh yes, definitely.”

“We don’t know who else might chicken out.”

The women attempted a giggle, but Trish was already out of earshot. After checking to see that the initial decorations were underway, she left the Met at four o’clock. Early that morning the florists had set to work. A fountain had been installed in the middle of the dining hall. Everything was going smoothly. Everything had to go smoothly.

As they descended the front steps of the museum, Trish and Margaret noticed the obvious cluster of blue sawhorses set up by the police on the sidewalk below.

“Oh, yes,” Trish put her hand to her chest. “Don’t forget to call our friend at the Commissioner’s office to make sure the theatrics are kept to a minimum, across the street.”

Margaret tagged along, scribbling in her notebook and jotting down any stray must-dos that Trish thought up as they strolled down 81st Street. A few society women bid excited greetings.

“Can’t wait until tonight,” cooed Jessica Cannenbury as she walked her shi tsus, politely avoiding mention of the
Post
column.

“Are you wearing the Dior?” quizzed Annette Deitz, her arms loaded down with Bergdorf Goodman bags. Trish remained chipper yet coy. Tonight was her night, the party of the season, no matter who tried to trash it.

“Maybe we should find out who’s organizing this protest and tell them the Mayor isn’t coming,” Margaret suggested.

“I don’t think the Mayor is their only
target tonight,” Trish said as she fished through her purse for a cigarette.

Moments after the women left the Museum through the front, the bulk of the waiters showed up at the side door. Even arriving and departing dress codes banning shorts were followed, despite the sudden warm weather.

Ritchie arrived a few minutes early, having securely locked his bicycle at a stand near the front steps. Marcos sat outside on the museum steps smoking a cigarette, sparing himself the burden of entering until exactly four o-clock. He’d watched Trish Fuller leave and scanned the cluster of police barricades.

“
Buenos pinga,
Ricardo,” Marcos called as Ritchie approached.

“Hey.” Ritchie removed his helmet as Marcos stood and flicked his cigarette away. “What’s with the barricades?”

Marcos waved it off as he followed Ritchie into the museum. “Oh, those? It’s a gay AIDS thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

Philipe looked thinner, drawn. His oft repeated lecture on decorum and swift service echoed through the hall. His well-worn jokes about dropping silverware brought few giggles.

Ed, Brian, Ritchie, and Marcos stood in the back, staring off at the tapestries along the wall near the waiter’s coat rack. Philipe checked his watch, consulted with captains.

The staff waited. Amid the standing choir of silence, every late footstep echoed all the way to the Etruscan Wing.

“Are we all here? Good. We have many reports of some odd goings-on that are planned tonight,” Philipe announced, his voice oddly quiet. “I will make myself clear. Any of you who feel compelled to be a part of such activities, or interrupt the events, will be immediately dismissed. I want decorum and proper behavior at its best tonight. Am I understood?”

As Philipe continued, six waiters - Lee, Kevin, Carissa, Bob, and the Davids - walked hurriedly to join the group. They came completely dressed and without bags. Lee nodded to Brian.

“Ah, I see we have our double-shifters. Is zat all of you?”

Kevin called out a “Yes, sir.” Lee stood next to Brian, Ed, and Ritchie.

“What’s the deal?” Brian whispered.

“We worked a lunch across town,” Lee nodded.

“Bullshit. What’s going on?”

“We worked. A lunch. Across town.”

Philipe continued. “After I am srough, zose of you who have not done so ... shenge.” The corner of his mouth crept to a smile as several waiters mumbled, “Shenge, shenge, shenge,” like a small army of Louis Jordan impersonators. He let them have their fun and went on checking his list.

“Now, we hev a lot of femmus people attending tonight. Don gawk at them. Dey want to have a good time.” He then continued his lecture with a few points on wine-pouring.

“Here we go again,” Brian mumbled.

“Do you have sum-sing to add, Mister Burns?” Philipe glared solemnly.

“No, sir.” All eyes were on him.

“Very well. We shall continue.”

“So, when’s the big ACT UP stripper gonna pop out of the cake?” Marcos nudged Brian.