Turning Idolater (15 page)

Philip spied Ahab in the mirror, the little Teddy
bear propped on a pillow sea. It had been an eventful week — a week
without comparison in Philip’s life. He winked at the cute
peg-legged ursine mariner, and then stepped back for a full glance
of his own fashion picture. He was head to toe different. His new
hairdo cropped short
a la
Brad Pitt befitted the tan
three-buttoned double-breasted suit. The tie, which he didn’t know
how to knot, draped over his open collar like a thin prayer shawl.
He had creases in his pant.
Pants
. He couldn’t remember
wearing anything better than cheap jeans or hand-me-down shorts. He
puckered and blew himself a kiss. It had been an astonishing
week.

Tee had given Philip the grand tour of the best
haberdasheries on Fifth Avenue, and although Philip had never
pictured himself in such finery, Thomas helped with the selection,
from cashmere sweaters (for the autumn), some sportswear (for those
every day encounters), beach wear (for . . . well, for the beach,
particularly Provincetown, where they would be taking what Tee
called
The Annual Pilgrimage
) and, of course, dinner wear
(for the theater and parties, like the one that was about to unfurl
in the Dye flat). Thomas introduced Philip to a variety of
different cuisines, some of which Philip thought would be a
one-time tasting. Eating the Injerian tablecloth at an Ethiopian
restaurant was harsh despite the fun monkey-fur seating.

There was business also. Florian presented them with
a contract in the form of a credit loan. It mystified Philip, who
had never even had a credit card. Now he had a collateralized loan
and a bank account. In fact, he called Sprakie to announce that the
rent check
was in the mail.
Sprakie seemed to have gotten
over Philip’s departure and minimized
the Porn Nazi’s
reaction. In fact, Kurt was glad to replace him, or so Sprakie
said. That bothered Philip. He had performed well at
manluv
despite the occasional tardiness . . . hell, lateness, but he more
than made up for that. Philip wondered whether
Asspounder
and
Papuppy
missed him. Such thoughts were bound to occur in
the wake of Sprakie’s
no big deal, hon
comments.

“Tee is throwing me a party,” Philip said.

“Well, isn’t that special,” Sprakie twittered over
the cell. “Will he be serving the Sarsaparilla? Did he hire a
clown?”

“You never give it a rest. And here I was going to
invite you.”

“
Moi
. You were going to invite
moi
?
Won’t the old man object?”

“No. He told me I could invite anyone I wanted. You
immediately came to mind.”

“Jesus Marie, you know I‘d be there in a flash. Is
it jock straps only or fancy dress?”

Philip chuckled. He missed Sprakie and there was no
reason they still couldn’t be friends. Thomas didn’t own him. In
fact, Philip was a man of apparently independent means. If he
wanted to invite
the Porn Nazi
to the
soiree
, he
could — not that he would.

“Wear your best bowling shirt,” Philip said. “No tux
now.”

“I don’t own a tux.”

“Well, don’t rent one.”

“Can I bring a date?”

Philip didn’t expect this. “Will you rent one?”

“Smart ass. No. Mama Sprakie can find just about
anything on or off the rack to bring to a fancy do cocktail party —
even at a moment’s notice.”

“Of course. Bring whoever you want.”

“Maybe he’ll get lucky with all those rich
pickings.”

“Maybe,” Philip said. He thought of his own luck,
but somehow was unsure how much fate was propelling him forward.
His collateral may have been sown — in fact, if Thomas was to be
believed, it was. Still, how lucky was that?

As warm as Thomas’ arms were and no matter how much
Philip basked in the glory of his smile, there was one change that
stirred Philip to pause.
The book
— the open bark that
carried him beyond the harbor over sea spume under the rigging —
was closed now. He tried to dive in again, but every time he
pondered its worth. He worried that he might tear the edges as he
turned the pages. His fingers were now stain makers, depreciating
the collateral with each reading. Soon,
the book
sat on his
nightstand, and then in the drawer and finally, at his own
prodding, in a safety deposit box with Mother Chase. He bought the
Penguin version, but it felt foul, the spine unyielding — the type
like soldiers fighting a distracting war on the margins. Thomas
noticed this development and offered his own copy up as
replacement, but the same fundamental issues prevailed. It was a
fucking first edition and would fetch much on eBay. Therefore,
Thomas settled Philip back in the dim evening light and read to him
in golden tones:

“
Nor did I at all object to the hint from
Queequeg that perhaps it were best to strike a light, seeing that
we were so wide awake; and besides he felt a strong desire to have
a few quiet puffs from his Tomahawk. Be it said, that though I had
felt such a strong repugnance to his smoking in the bed the night
before, yet see how elastic our stiff prejudices grow when love
once comes to bend them. For now I liked nothing better than to
have Queequeg smoking by me, even in bed, because he seemed to be
full of such serene household joy then. I no more felt unduly
concerned for the landlord’s policy of insurance. I was only alive
to the condensed confidential comfortableness of sharing a pipe and
a blanket with a real friend. With our shaggy jackets drawn about
our shoulders, we now passed the Tomahawk from one to the other,
till slowly there grew over us a blue hanging tester of smoke,
illuminated by the flame of the new-lit lamp.”

Philip was there again, in spades. He knew that the
words drew him, but now the voice drew him also. It was good. It
was better. He would reach the journey’s end clutching a warm
heartfelt bosom. Fate? Luck? Manipulation? He didn’t care. The
figure in the mirror was the same one he had always known, just
clad in fresh sailcloth.

A gentle knock. “Are you ready, dear lamb?”

“Yes, Tee.”

“The guests are on their way up.”

“One moment more.”

Now Philip would play the host. He had great
expectations that before the evening was out, he would know what
enterprise would anchor him. He spied Ahab again on the pillows and
smiled, illuminated by the flame of the new-lit lamp.

The living room buzzed with Thomas’ friends and
acquaintances, all perched in various poses, drinks in hand and
canapés
on plates — each vying for a slot in the many
conversations, that mostly revolved around shop talk — the latest
review or the snappiest blog. Interspersed between these mavens
were two waiters that peddled crab cakes, shrimp balls, salmon
pate
and caviar. And betwixt these buoys on this becalmed
ocean, Philip drifted unmoored in the doldrums. He was introduced
to Thomas’ publicist, Madeleine Frankel, who smiled dimly and
pinched his cheek like some distant aunt. She then babbled on about
the possibility of debuting Thomas’ next book on Oprah, but beyond
that Philip was lost. There was the
international
agent,
Sylvia Hogarth and her husband Matt Planck. Philip didn’t quite
understand how Sylvia managed to maintain a different last name as
her husband, but since she was loquacious and he as silent as Tut’s
tomb, Philip never found out. Philip was also puzzled that Florian
was not the exclusive agent, but Thomas explained that some
contracts called for separate international representation and
Sylvia was well connected in Europe and South America.

A rather Nelly man in a check jacket and striped
cravat was delighted by Philip’s presence. He remarked on his
physical beauty (both Philip’s and his own) and made more than his
share of age appropriate comments. Philip tried to remain silent on
this issue, because the man — Horace Paddington III, was at least
sixty and conspicuously stag. In fact, Philip chalked most of this
jargon up to the green-eyed monster.

A brace of chattering couples stood sentry in the
hallway, sipping their drinks, munching their caviar treats and
occasionally adding their opinion into the current of discussion,
which Philip guessed concerned the political state of the nation,
but since it drifted in and out of various arts funding issues,
budget cuts, the collapse of the trumpet section at the
Philharmonic and the deplorable condition of the continual war
between Amazon.com and Ingrams, Philip hadn’t a notion what it was
ultimately about. Even when his opinion was sought, he could do no
more than nod and offer a broad, agreeable grin, heaven help
us.

“There’s the lad,” boomed a voice — a dramatic voice
that caused Philip to spill his Cosmo.

Thomas latched an arm onto a lanky man, who towered
above the crowd. The man wore a red dinner jacket over a green
satin shirt. A strange tasseled cap covered his baldpate, which
Thomas explained later, was a
fez
— a prized possession and
souvenir of a long-standing gig in Morocco.

“Philip,” Thomas said. “May I introduce you to Lars
Hamilton?”

Philip shuffled his drink from left hand to right,
extending a welcome. However, Mr. Hamilton, who probably expected a
response more in line with
The Lars Hamilton
? brushed it
aside. He scanned Philip from head to toe, and then assumed a
studied pose.

“Yes, Thomas, he would do nicely.”

Philip suddenly recognized that this might be one of
those opportunities that Thomas mentioned. Philip cocked his head
to match Mr. Hamilton’s.

“He has no experience,” Thomas said, “but he
certainly has the look.”

“He
does
have the look,” Lars said. “Turn
around, my dear lad.” His voice resonated above the sizzling
conversations, trumping Philip’s awareness. Philip slowly turned,
and then felt embarrassed.
Was he being sold on the auction
block?

“Tee, is this necessary?”

Thomas clapped his hand on Philip’s shoulder. “Lars
is the director of the Provincetown New Family Players, a
prestigious acting troupe that tries out in P’Town and then
generally circulates to other venues.”

“Acting?”

“Not just acting,” Lars said. He looked Philip
square in the eye. “Premium theatrics. A fine repertoire from
Shakespeare to Busch — we do it all. Fully draped in Elizabethan
clo’ or stark naked on a balance beam — classical to eclectic, we
are the full theater experience.”

“And you think I could act?” Philip asked. He had
never considered this. The thought was too pregnant to consider
now, but it was amusing and a far sight clearer than the state of
the National Endowment at BAM, whatever that fuck that was.

“I don’t know,” Lars said. He glanced at Thomas. “No
experience, you say. But from the virginal thrust of tongue and
hand comes the sweet hummingbird on the lea.”

Thomas winked. Philip now realized that Thomas had
no inclination to have Philip captured by this thespian charlatan,
offering him up as some evening entertainment. In fact, Philip
spied Florian on the periphery grinning like a pinched cow,
probably hoping that Philip would follow suit and become the fool.
Philip would not oblige him.

“Indulge me,” Lars said. “Cast you eyes into the
distance. To a point beyond that space. Over there.”

Philip looked in the direction of the balcony. “Like
this?”

“Yes. Splendid. Now tilt your head up and say —
Purty.”

“Purty?”

“Not
perdy
.
Purty
, with a twang.
Imagine yourself on a farm at a distance point in time and looking
to the skies, seeing the wonder of heaven in the cloud lands and
you say . . .”

Philip twitched. He gazed out and up.
“
Purty?
”

“Again.”

“
Purty.”

“Purfect.”

Lars Hamilton nodded, satisfied with this sample
audition. “We shall let you know.” He sauntered toward the waiters
with an eye on either the crab cakes or another extemporaneous
audition. “We shall let you . . .”

Flo snickered. “He never changes.”

“Well, you cannot rule these things out,” Thomas
said.

Philip felt isolated. “What just happened?”

“Lars is an old fixture here,” Flo said. “He starred
years ago in the stage version of
Tapioca Times
. Closed in
three nights, but that’s another story. He still shows up at all of
Tee’s parties. I should ask Miriam to remove him from the list. He
hasn’t had a hit in years.”

“Then, what’s all this
purdy
shit about?”
Philip asked.

“O’Neill,” Thomas said. “He is directing a
production of
Desire Under the Elms
at Provincetown and he
has been casting for weeks.”

Philip shrugged.

“You’ve never seen
Desire
?” Flo snapped as if
it should have been prerequisite to an invitation.

Philip rounded on him. “Listen, Flo. I know you
think I know nothing, but I know lots of shit that’s more important
than O’Neill or BAM or half of the crap that’s floating here
tonight.” His voice happened to fall into one of those awkward
points in communal conversation when, fate would have it, silence
prevailed. All heads turned. Flo’s eyes opened wide.

“I told you this was a mistake.” Flo whispered to
Thomas, but even a whisper served as an echo after Philip’s
remark.

“Philip,” Thomas said.

“Excuse me,” Philip stuttered.

Philip retreated from the room seeking the sanctuary
of the kitchen. He closed his eyes trying to make this gathering
disappear. He expected Thomas to follow him, but Thomas instead
restarted the conversations. They were astonishing conversations.
Philip clearly heard various voices blurting
we must make
allowances. He’s young. He will learn in time. Are you sure this is
a wise move, Thomas?
The conversations jolted Philip, who felt
out of his league. This came as no surprise, but he really wanted
to stretch himself and at least stay silent enough to convince the
company that he was civilized.
Was he trying to be as
pretentious?