The Home For Wayward Ladies (17 page)

I nearly vomit myself when Jason slips the old dude the tongue. “Eli, honey,” Hunter says, “this is just a hypothesis full of untested variables, but I suspect that man is not his mother.”  Not only am I shocked to have been lied to, but the physical condition of the man that I had been lied to for makes me want to cut a bitch. First of all, this dude is fat, like, terminally one Ding-Dong away from cardiac arrest. And, furthermore, he looks old enough to have invented moveable type. At the very least, I hope that fat old fuck is rich and that Jason’s charging him a fortune.

The three of us are practically feral as we slip into pack formation and approach with intent to devour. “You let me say something to that son-of-a-bitch,” Nick says. “That rat has a lot nerve to miss my show.”

Hunter pulls him back. “You’ll do no such thing. That rat has got a lot of nerve to disgrace our Lady. Eli will fight his own battles, thank you very much.”

It’s not until Jason has released suction from that fat fuck’s face that he sees me. By then, it is too late. That bastard has nowhere to run.  

“Jason!?” I say, tapping him on the shoulder with enough force to break skin. “It’s so nice to see you. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your mother?”

His face is chapped from the old man’s stubble and grows more red by the second. “Eli, what a surprise. This is Alfred.” Old Man Alfred offers me his liver-spotted hand. I laugh in his face as hard as I can without belching. Jason takes a step toward me like he’s got the kind of imagination it would take to explain this one away. When he does, Hunter and Nick close in against my shoulders. We form a unified front. That motherfucker doesn’t stand a chance. By now, he should know better than to challenge a Lady; not only do we know how to cause a scene, but we’re not afraid to pull hair in the process.

When Jason looks at me, I see nothing but sadness- the lost little boy that will never stop wandering. I’m not mad at him. I can’t be. He’s too stupid for this to be his fault. The water was warm so he jumped in; I’m the one who held him under. Now, gasping for breath, I snarl as I prepare my venom to spray. He looks terrified. Hunter sees me falter, so he reaches for my hand to remind me he’ll always be right there. I know now that it’s time to let Jason stop playing me like a fiddle. It’s time to hand it to Nero while the Ladies watch Rome burn.

“Enjoy him, Alfred,” I say over my shoulder as I walk away. “I can assure you this one’s a real catch. Oh, and if you like the way he sucks dick, just remember— I taught him everything he knows.”

My Ladies take my hands and we stumble to the john. With them by my side, I feel strong. Dying alone or always having each other? At least now I don’t have to decide.

PART TWO

21

HUNTER

I don’t bother to knock when I throw open Eli's door; there is simply no time for such a courtesy. Anyhow, I’m certain that he isn’t doing anything worth walking in on. As usual, I am right. On what is presumably our last night in New York City, Eli is consumed with the mundanity of pulling clothes from dresser drawers and transporting them to his old suitcase. I sprawl out next to them on his bed. If I live to be a hundred, I don’t think I’ll ever meet someone so persistently practical as Eli Bodner-Schultz.

“What I don’t understand,” I interrupt, “is how you can feel compelled to pack a thing. For Pete’s sake, Eli, we still don’t know if our arrival at that theater tomorrow is to be expected.”

As he continues to move about his duties, his smile brandishes a collection of cotton-headed dreams. “Hunter, as far as I can see, my suitcase is already half-full. If you’d be so kind as to leave me the fuck alone, I’m going to pack until my luggage runneth over.”

“And then what?” I say. “Since you seem to be operating on a more enlightened plane, pray tell, what happens when we get in my car tomorrow morning, show up at the Pocono Show Barn, and find out that this was all a misunderstanding, that we are, in fact, not the director and choreographer of their new musical revue?”

“Then you sign into your fucking Twitter account and beep-bop-boop about how you should have waited until you had a contract to publicly announce this gig to all of your imaginary fans.” I hate it when Eli talks to me like I have the sense of a boiled potato.

“Keep talking, sassafras. The more you do, the more you prove my point. So, as they say in Napa Valley, ‘Put a cork in it.’ I would have been happy to sign a contract had the Pocono Show Barn bothered to pen one. I spoke with Danny about it this morning and did exactly as I was told. I called that producer, Mr. Vallenzino, several times. He didn’t pick up once. Three voicemails have disappeared, poof, into the ether. If that’s the way he treats his new artistic personnel, then I’m inclined to stay home.”

“Hunter, please shut up. All of the arrangements have already been made.” It is difficult for him to speak with a Polo shirt tucked under his chin, mid-fold. “Danny has hired a moving company to show up here tomorrow with everything he owns because you were too panic-stricken to let a sublet sleep in your canopy bed. I’m not going to be the one to tell him ‘JK/LOL, turn around, Hunter’s got sand in his vagina.’ As if it weren’t enough that he got us these jobs, now he’s agreed to move in while we’re away so he can pay our bills.”

“You can say whatever you want, I still don’t trust him,” I reply. “He got us these jobs to get us out of town. Now he’s moving in so he can steal Nick all for himself. Eli, he’s trying to rob us of our Lady. I can feel it.”

“Hunter, what you feel is jealousy and, perhaps, a touch of indigestion. I know that it’s a foreign concept to you, but you can’t begrudge a man for falling in love. Although why someone like Danny Olsen set his sights on Nick Applebaum I’ll never understand.” Eli takes one Converse shoe in his hand and angrily digs through the bottom of his closet until he finds its partner. “And, furthermore,” he says, mashing the shoes into his bag “Danny’s not stealing Nick away into anything. The way that homo’s been carrying on, I’d be surprised if he hasn’t picked out his own ring. Danny’s a good man, Hunter. If you’re going to be tied to one dick for the rest of your life, it might as well be his. Nick is an incredibly lucky son-of-a-bitch. Be happy for them.”

“I am happy for them. Now I want to be happy for me. I am excited about this choreography gig, Eli. Truly, I am. But that doesn’t mean I can’t also be nervous. This is the first show I’ve done since we were at Mackinaw. And it’s not as if you have any more professional credits than I do. May I remind you that you haven’t booked work since we got here either? Aren’t you the slightest bit concerned that you’ve lost your touch?”

“For shame, darling,” he replies. “The only thing that I’ve been lacking is opportunity and, from the sound of it, the support of my best friend. I’m on the brink of something great and if you don’t want to come along for the ride, then get out of my fucking way. Hunter, I don’t know if you have realized the sad state of affairs, but I need this. I need to create something or I have no reason to not jump off the GWB. Absolutely no one has been willing to take a chance on me this year. Not that fuckwit Jason, not you, not nobody. And still I smile every time this city socks me across the jaw. But, if I may borrow a phrase from your people, this is one time when I refuse to turn the other cheek. I won’t have you insinuate that the reason I’m not getting any work is because I’ve ‘lost my touch.’ You better get it through your thick skull right quick: I’m fucking fabulous. I always have been and I always will be. Don’t you ever forget it.”

His causticity makes me feel like Joan Crawford in
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane
— cut off at the knees. But I am on this bed, Blanche, and Eli’s culinary skills leave so much to be desired that all he has to serve is dead bird over lettuce.

“Hunter,” he pleads, trying to control the raging currents deep below, “the Pocono Show Barn is the first place that doesn’t care that I’m a nobody because Danny’s word is strong enough to prove that I deserve for that not to be true. As Sondheim said better than the rest of us ever will: ‘opportunity is not a lengthy visitor.’” Eli pushes his suitcase aside and sits down next to me on the bed. His hand rests on my knee like he’s my father on the world’s worst sitcom. “I have never met a choreographer that deserves to have his name in lights more than you do, Hunt. Think of it this way- if everything goes the way Danny says it will, we get there tomorrow and, contract or no contract, we spend the summer making art. If your piss-poor attitude prevails and the Pocono Show Barn doesn’t know us from Adam, we turn the car around and go antiquing in East Stroudsburg. Face facts, Lady, this excursion is totally win/win.”

I am willing to admit that it was somewhat foolish of me to have not prepared myself for the sacrifice of stability required by a life in the theater. “I still can’t help but think that Mr. Vallenzino’s silence is a bad omen.”

Eli laughs, “Normal people don’t believe in omens.”

“And I’m sure that puts them at a disadvantage,” I snap.  “Thankfully, I have never been normal. And despite your packing the entirety of Ralph Lauren’s summer line, your disguises don’t make you normal either. Try all you want to pull the seasonally inappropriate wool over my eyes, Mr. Eli Bodner-Schultz. You can’t fool me; I’ve known you far too long. You’re a freak, and I wouldn’t love you any other way.”

“Lady, tell me,” he says, “what can I do to make you happy enough to go to your own room and throw some shit in a bag so we can leave tomorrow and start trying to make our dreams come true?”

The lingering desperation in his eyes makes me feel guilty for having started this interrogation in the first place. “Well, since you asked, I’m prepared to drop the matter if you can solemnly swear that you are not at all concerned about whatever it is we are getting ourselves into.”

“Fine. I, Eli Bodner-Schultz, having been born into degradation in Baltimore, Maryland and since risen from the ashes, do by solemnly swear that the Pocono Show Barn is on the up-and-up. I’m not worried, Hunter, and now you’re not allowed to be either.”

Even though I see his fingers crossed behind his back, I spend the night packing just the same. Throwing yourself off a cliff without being able to see the ground below is something you should always do when your best friend says, “Jump.”

Brighter and earlier than I would prefer to rise the next morning, Eli and I are sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. Eli paces while we impatiently await the arrival of Danny and Nick, as well as the movers that will be toting all of Danny’s things. After we’ve allowed too much time to slip away, Eli insists that we hit the dusty trail. “We don’t have all fucking day,” he says. “I want to be in the Poconos by mid-afternoon. I need a chance to settle in. Otherwise, we start rehearsals tomorrow morning and the next six weeks are completely lost to chasing a carrot on a treadmill.” I call Nick’s cell phone but he does not answer. I’ve gotten so accustomed to his voicemail greeting that I know it better than the lyrics to “La Vie Boheme B.”

“Hi, guys and goils, Nick Applebaum here. Leave me one if you’ve got something to say. And if you called to shoot the shit, give my mother a try instead. I talked to her last night and she misses you.” Beep.

“Hi, Lady, sorry for another voicemail. I can’t seem to get a hold of you these days for the life of me. I was calling to let you know that Eli and I are out the door on our way to that gig in the Poconos. Tell Danny we said thanks again and we wish you nothing but luck with his move. I’m practically beside myself that we didn’t get a chance to see you before we had to go. Give me a buzz if you get reception in the hive. Otherwise, I’ll see you in six weeks. Miss you already, Lady.”

My car is parked several blocks away. On our walk there, Eli uses the heat of early summer as an excuse to be insulting (as if he’s ever needed an excuse). Carrying his world in bags upon his shoulders, he says, “How is it that every time I see your car, I am more surprised by how much of a piece of shit it is?”

Mind you, I am fully aware that my car, a red Pontiac Sedan named Tina Louise, is far from state-of-the-art. I don’t expect her to be. After all, she was manufactured circa the first Gulf War. Her foibles, however, do not make it acceptable for Eli to hurl hateful barbs about her condition.

“Eli, my love, you mustn’t be too hard on the old dear. Why, you’ve proven better than anyone that a woman can’t get by on her looks forever. Honestly, I would like to see you express an iota of gratitude that I have access to wheels at all, even if what rides on top of them is not air conditioned.”