The Legend of the Ditto Twins (56 page)

I realize
now that Clark and I were too quick to blame Lily for all the catastrophes we
faced during the next year. While none of them was actually her fault, she
was
the one who put
things in motion, the one who suggested we go to the club, not on Saturday
night as was our custom, but on Sunday. That's when they held their weekly Open
Mike Karaoke Contest, and she was the one who dared us to enter.

Something
told us not to use our real names, and besides, presenting ourselves as Ryan
and Bryan Ditto was good publicity for the film. We sang and danced our hearts
out—"What I Did for Love" from
Chorus Line
—and we
won!

It was a
magical night. We were amazed by how many people had already seen the film,
fans who wanted to adore us, to touch us. Best of all, we were finally asked
for our autographs. The first couple of times, I had to stop and think before
signing Ryan instead of Mark, but it wasn't long before I got over that.

Soon we
headed for the smoking patio with Jett and Brett.

"You're
really great," began Jett. Where did you..."

“...learn
to sing and dance like that? You should..."

“...hit
the club circuit. You could..."

“...make
a ton of money that way."

The next
day when we asked Jay what the club circuit was, his answer was dismissive.
"Oh, there's a whole string of gay clubs all over the fuckin country that
book porn stars for personal appearances. Nothing you'd be interested in."
He went back to the morning mail.

"Why
not? Jett says..."

“...there's
good money in it."

He looked
up. "You need money?"

"Well,
no, but we can't just..."

“...leech
off you and Clay the rest of our lives."

"Why
not?" He tossed an envelope in the wastebasket.

"Well,
we're adults now. We should start thinking..."

“...about
getting a place of our own. And besides..."

“...it
might be fun meeting our fans."

"And
it might not be."

"What
does that mean?" In unison.

"You
want to spend your days on planes and your nights shaking your booties at
fuckin' strangers?"

We
grinned. "Sounds like a hoot."

In
answer, he tore a piece of junk mail in two and reached for the next one. We
let the matter drop. A week later, though, when we got an e-mail from the
manager of Another World, offering us a two-night paying gig at his club, we
drove into Chicago to talk.

The
manager's name was Don Something-or-Other. He was a nice old man with a bad
toupee, in his sixties, still trying to pass for thirty-nine. At one time, he'd
probably been a body builder, but now he wore a bulky sweatshirt and baggy
pants to hide the flab he'd acquired along with the success of his club. He was
eating a candy bar.

"You've
never done this sort of thing before?"

"Never."
In unison.

"Well,
you were damned good the other night. I'm willing to take a chance on you if
you'd like. So? You interested? I suppose you want to know about the
money."

We
nodded. "Sure."

"We
pay the same as most other clubs on the circuit, but the real money's in the
tips."

"Tips?"
In unison.

"That
they stuff in your jocks while you're dancing—and afterwards at The Meet and
Greet."

"What's
that?" In unison.

"Where
you mix and mingle with your fans, let 'em cop a feel. It'll double your tips.
You can set up dates, too, if you want to. You escort?"

"We
don't do that." In unison.

He
smiled. "No one does, to begin with." He finished off the candy bar
and lifted a paper from his desk. "The contract. It's standard stuff. Give
a call tomorrow and let me know, so I can get the promo started. Any
questions?" Before we could speak, he added. "Oh, one other thing.
You can get down to a G-string in this county, but no nudity. And the dick
stays in the pouch at all times, okay?"

Jay was
not real happy when we relayed the details of the conversation to him. Neither
was Clay. But in our defense, I have to say, neither of them told us—or even
asked us—not to proceed. Matter of fact, they actually agreed to come to our
debut at the club and give us notes.

"Were
we that bad?" we asked as the four of us sat in the dressing room
afterwards.

"Not
at all," replied Jay. "Just not good enough."

"But
the audience loved us." In unison.

"No.
They didn't love you. They wanted to fuck you."

That shut
us up real quick.

Jay
looked at Clay, then at us. "You're amateurs. Innocent lambs. You don't
know. Tell em, Babe."

Clay
nodded. "Guys, it really is a dangerous idea. You'd just be inviting
trouble. It doesn't make sense..."

We
interrupted, “...except, maybe business-wise. It..."

“...could
only help sales of the film, and..."

“...since
we're splitting everything four ways..."

“...we'd
all make some extra money."

Jay
scowled. "Don't be too fuckin greedy."

"Why
do you want to do this?" asked Clay. "Take a fuckin minute and think
about it before you answer."

The best
we could come up with was: "It sounds like fun."

Clay
groaned. "It's a job, for
Chrissake
."

"And
we're not gonna be around to fuckin' keep you out of trouble, you know,"
added Jay.

"We
don't get into trouble." In unison.

"But
you could," he went on. "Everywhere you go, you'll be offered a
fuckin' lot of money for private shows.'"

"No." In unison. "No escorting."

"No?"
Jay seemed skeptical. "I hope not. But what about the freebies? There'll
be lots of hunky men out there just waiting to give themselves to you
freely.
For
nothing."

"Clark
and I have already discussed that, and we've decided we're not gonna have sex
with anyone but each other till we make the movie with Jett and Brett."

Jay's
reply was a snort. "What about drugs?"

"What
about drugs?" In unison.

"Stars
can get anything they want."

"We don't
do drugs. I mean, we tried pot a couple of times, but it..."

“...made
us sleepy, and that got in the way of our lovemaking, so we gave it up."

Jay
sighed. "You'd need a choreographer."

"Couldn't
you find someone?" In unison.

"And
who's gonna book the tour?" he inquired.

We turned
to Clay, who threw up his hands.

For a
month we took dance classes every morning, singing lessons every afternoon, and
rehearsed our act with Jay every night. It was a real grind; we barely found
time to make love. Just before Labor Day, we flew off to begin our tour at a
club called Limbo in West Hollywood. It was there that we had our first run-in
with Rev. Abel Flamm and his Bible Thumpers. They'd come all the way from
Kansas to bury us.

When we
disembarked at the Los Angeles International Airport, the first thing we did
was put on our sunglasses. No one seemed to notice; everyone in LA wears
sunglasses.

As we
moved into the arrivals area, standing among the car-service
drivers was a willowy Asian who might have been
anywhere between eighteen and thirty. He was wearing flip-flops, bright fuchsia
short-shorts (that matched his hair), and a T-shirt declaring "Life Is A
Drag."

"You
have to be The Dittos," he purred. "I'm Kim, but my friends call me
Kimmy. Okay, which is which?"

"I'm
Ryan," I said.

"Which
means I must be Bryan," cracked Clark.

We tried
to shake hands, but Kimmy insisted on hugs and air kisses instead. In no time,
we were in the vast parking lot.

"The
car's right over here," he bubbled.

It was
not a limousine.

"We're
staying at a private home, right?" we asked as we climbed into the back
seat of his ten-year-old Jeep.

"Right.
T.J.'s place, up in the hills. He's the owner. Much nicer that way. More homey.
Also cheaper. Ordinarily I'd take you directly there, but T.J. asked me to
bring you right to the club first. Seems we have a problem."

"Not
a big one," said T.J. as we shook hands in his wood-and-glass-paneled
office. "But it is a problem."

Like
Kimmy, T.J. was a man of indeterminate age, swaggering through middle-age, his
head shaved, his skin made leathery by too many years in the sun. He also wore
flip-flops, shorts (tan, not fuchsia), and a T-shirt (navy blue, no slogan).

He stood.
"Okay, here's the situation. That son-of-a-bitch preacher from Kansas is
flying in with his horde to picket us tomorrow night when—or if—you open."

"'If'?"
In unison.

"Now
you can cancel—no hard feelings. But no money if you do." He shrugged.
"That's show biz."

Clark and
I looked at each other.

"The
show must go on." In unison. We sounded just like Judy Garland.

T.J.
nodded. "Good. We're gonna be turning folks away tomorrow night. You want
a drink or something?"

He
stepped to the wet bar and opened its bleached wood cabinet. On o
ne side was the liquor; on the other, half a dozen crystal
bowls, each filled with more capsules and tablets than they've got at
Walgreens. And, oh yes, a mound of what looked like a cup of Pillsbury Gold
Medal Flour, but we knew it wasn't. We passed on the refreshments.

T.J.
began to pace. "We've been picketed before, but not in years. Not since
the days of the Briggs initiative."

We made a
mental note to look that one up.

"These
days, things are pretty laid back out here," he continued. "But I've
hired extra security anyway. And we've got laws. Protestors have to stay back,
can't come within a hundred yards, something like that. But they'll have
bullhorns. There'll be cops everywhere. So keep your noses clean. Oh, that
reminds me. Kimmy, sanitize the liquor cabinet after we close tonight."

"Good
thinking, Ollie," Kimmy murmured dryly.

"So,
anyway, the gay thing's not the real problem. The God Hates Fags Gang is almost
a laughing stock these days. Well, except in Orange County. It's the
other
thing. My lawyers
tell me we'll be legally untouchable as long as you two don't get too... uh...
brotherly onstage."

"What
does that mean?" In unison.