Turning Idolater (21 page)

He saw the prow nearing. It was time for a display
of mastery — mastery of the deep. These small humans once thought
they ruled the waves, but he knew better. He sang to his mate, and
she answered the call. Together they broke the surface as surely as
the land broke the line of sea and sky. The spout shot skyward —
marker to mastery, barely missing the gulls that circled above the
krill, singing a chorus in the spume as these two rang forth in a
duet under heaven’s radiant light.

In flight, the spray clipped her wings. She had the
best view of sea and land, but the krill was difficult today,
beneath the great jaws; muted in the currents. Therefore, she
soared away from her sisters as they yapped above the approaching
prow. The dunes held more promise. She smelled the distant clam
beds at the land’s crest. Better promise today.

She hovered above the wave, as still as a moth, the
sea breeze wafting her to and fro in stolid motion. Her children
were near, still craving krill, but she knew better. She was
seasoned on these shores. She cawed and her striplings peeled away
from the white fluttering squall joining her in obedience. Then, up
and back to shore — back to the docklands and the bricklands, where
the pigeons reigned.

She scoured the grounds from the heights above the
tower. The sleek brick candle was home to nests, but not hers.
Still the currents favored her, bent in the gale and funneled to
the East End, where the dunes harbored crabs and lizards, and the
clam beds held great promise. So around the tower she flew, her
brood in tow, catching the land gale that spun them over the
marvels of the town. Over the roofs and slopes of taverns and
alehouses. Below were the human trade — good stews, these, for
their waste management, but until the day stalked higher in the
sky, she would need to invade the froglands and the
turtlelands.

There, where the houses dropped away and the humans
competed with
faux birds
with rag tails and long strings —
there, where the sand beveled to the grasslands and the sea kissed
sharply along the narrow strand — there, the clams winked down
under. She cawed and hovered before the dive. Then, as swift as a
stone from the heights, she dove and caught the seductive meal in
her beak. The weight of it felt good and promised much. She heard
her children splash behind her in the waves. She soared toward the
jetty, and then dropped her cargo, racing it to the rocks, where it
shattered, the morsel within snapped up into her jaws, peppery with
a touch of brine. Another dive was in order.

She looped to the heavens gathering momentum over
the cattails and the shore grass, where she spied a waiting paw in
the vines. That was to be avoided, and she did, signaling her
children to pass high over the dunes, because the witches and
warlocks were loose within the shrubbery.

His furry paw tried to catch the gull, but these
noisy creatures were smarter than they appeared. Just short of
capture, the bird changed its course and flew toward the sea. What
was an old Maine Coon to do among the reeds and grasses? There was
a mouse earlier that day — a pretty thing, too fragile to eat. It
made for good sport, but hardly tasty. Not like the tins placed in
the overgrown gardens by those nice ladies. There were always nice
ladies in this town — ladies who lived with ladies, and they all
loved the furry tribe that marauded through the high grasses and
the tumbledown gardens. There was nothing to fear from these
ladies. The men were not as friendly, but the ladies — oh, those
ladies. They put the tins out with fine, moist fish and
chicken.

The only fear that lingered was who was king of the
hill. There was once a fierce tabby, who reigned over all the tins.
He would hiss at anything that came close to the pavement or the
garden margins — at least, until he had his fill. But he was gone
now. Died of old age, his teeth falling out one by one. Now the
Maine Coon ruled. They all knew it. They all prowled through the
town, down the alleys, under the shadow of the great tower. Still,
it was acknowledged that the ladies who lived with ladies loved the
Maine Coon best. The tins glittered in the morning sun, the aromas
enticing all, but no one ate until the Maine Coon did.

So the mouse was just a plaything, as was the bird.
He wouldn’t have eaten the bird if he had brought it down. He would
have just pounced on it and left it half-alive, prey to lizards and
snakes. Still, it would have been nice to have such a toy on such a
fine day. He sounded off, at an annoyed pitch that let the
undergrowth know that he was tired of prowling — that he was about
to emerge onto the street and trot up the hill to his favorite lady
who lived with a lady. She would have a nice, late treat for him,
and then brush his fur through her spindly fingers.

He thought long about coming out into the daylight,
but when he finally made up his mind, he leaped onto the street and
past the great gray porch that was always there. At the top was a
mass of red fur and teeth that raised its head and growled. It was
more a greeting than aggression. The Maine Coon arched his back and
returned the compliment, and then scurried across the street toward
his heavenly treat.

The furry head returned to its rest. It was an old
head — nay, an ancient head, with sad, blind eyes and fading scent.
He waited for the sun to arch across the gables and warm him as it
had for these score and a quarter years. He had lumbered to the
narrow strand, barked at the birds and looked out to sea. Now he
was tired, such exercise overcoming his arthritic legs. He could
scarcely climb the stairs to the porch; his spine degenerated by
degrees. Once there, he would wait for the sun, interrupted only by
a passing cat. Even the flies left Old Charlotte unmolested.

His owner, a gentleman who lived with a gentleman,
called him Old Charlotte. Despite the fact that, unlike his owner,
he had fathered five litters, the good couple that oversaw his care
and feeding insisted that he was
their girl
, and lavished
ever so many hugs and kisses on him. He took it in stride for the
nice bowl of senior dog chow they provided. Besides, they supplied
a variety of friendly pats and prods. The porch was evidently a
place where the gentlemen owners entertained many guests who came
to this town to enjoy that sun that peeped beyond the gable. They
trod over the wooden porch and frolicked on the swing. They were a
silly lot to Old Charlotte, but he ignored them for the chance of
getting a caress, which always came. Everyone loved Old Charlotte.
In fact, Old Charlotte came to regard the porch as his own private
place in the shade and sun, the many visitors coming to pay him
homage. So be it.

Now there came another soft hand running fingers
through the fine red coat and croaking
Old Charlotte. Good Old
Charlotte
. This one sat on the top stair and hugged him. The
hand was most talkative, but the hum of his voice was interesting,
lulling Old Charlotte to sleep. It was a fine day in this town,
with the whales to sea, the birds to air, the cat in the fiddle
and, on the porch of
The
Pink Swallow Inn
, Old
Charlotte lulled by a visitor’s voice and hand. Such was the rhythm
of life in the hammocks in Provincetown.

“Jesus Marie,” Sprakie murmured as he combed his
hand through Old Charlotte’s coat. He watched the old queens emerge
onto the porch of
The White Swan
, the elite hotel across
Commercial Street. “The oasis is open. It’s time to water to old
crows.”

Sprakie had managed to hitch onto Philip’s star and
come to Provincetown. He wasn’t working at
manluv
, because
its license was still suspended, and although he had some pokers in
the fire, Max Gold’s death had shaken him to the core. Philip had
found Sprakie deeply ensconced in his apartment on Avenue A, under
the covers of his grand boudoir. He refused to emerge for anyone,
but Philip managed to coax him to dinner with Thomas —
The
Gujerati Rose
. However, Robert was changed. He was quiet and
withdrawn, so much so that Thomas took pity on him.
You might be
a pain in the ass, Sprakie,
Thomas reckoned,
but without
your snide repartee, I doubt the world could still orbit the
sun
. So Thomas invited Sprakie on the
Annual
Pilgrimage
.

Sprakie came back to life — went on interviews, did
a few quick tricks and even managed a photo op on
boyfun.com
. However, it was the promise of a wild time at
P’Town that kept him in ever-higher spirits. He had always wanted
to be in P’Town with . . . with Philip. He had this notion of
dancing every night in every club with his
protégé
. So when
they arrived in the great Cape Cod resort (Florian Townsend in
tow), Sprakie had an agenda set — an agenda that frittered to the
dunes within a day.

Philip liked to party — to dance, to watch the men
and even to touch, but he was on Thomas’ schedule, which called for
long morning walks on the beach, kite flying in the dunes,
luxuriant hours in bed, small talk from the hammocks, evenings at
the theater and the incessant parade through the town’s main street
— shopping, shopping, shopping. There was the town hall museum and
the heritage cemetery. There were strolls to the coast guard
station and scaling the Pilgrim’s tower looking out to sea.
Comparison shopping for the best lobster deal for the evening meal
was routine. Voyeurism at the naked volleyball court on the far
beach was a must. Where this left Sprakie, he couldn’t tell and the
others didn’t seem to care. He was always invited along, but he
wanted to boogie at
The Atlantic House
and frolic at the
daily Tea Dance at
The Boatslip
. Now Sprakie was reduced to
waiting and watching the old queens on the porch of
The White
Swan
, while Thomas and Philip were off watching whales.

Sprakie hugged Old Charlotte, kissing the dog’s
silky head.

“Watch this, pooch.” He stood and waved at the
gathering across the street. Since he was wearing something short
of a thong, the tools of the trade in evidence, the old poufs at
their oasis waved back, careening over the railing to get a better
look.

“Kiss this,” Sprakie mumbled as he wiggled his ass,
and then did a hootchy-kootchy dance. He laughed, because he knew
that he had pacemakers racing and sugar levels soaring. He caught
the attention of a parade of strollers, who strutted down
Commercial Street, their abs glistening in the sun. They
whistled.

“Yes, sir,” Sprakie called, blowing them a kiss. He
spied the hairdresser from the salon across the street emerge,
shading his eyes.

“If you can’t show it off, it ain’t worth showing,”
Sprakie shouted. The hairdresser applauded and began his own dance.
The old queens were falling over themselves, the drinks spilling on
designer shorts. Three Coast Guardsmen passed by. Sprakie stopped
his dance, smacking his lips.

“I always love a man in uniform, you hunks.”

They ignored him. Sprakie hunkered down beside Old
Charlotte, who stretched at his touch. “Jesus Marie. Don’t you
believe for a minute that they’re all straight down at the East
End. Why else do you think they got stationed in P’Town? I mean,
how many straight bars are in this village.” He kissed the dog’s
head. “There isn’t even a bar for the heterosexual fag-gawkers that
come every Saturday to report home about
those queers holding
hands in public, would you believe it
. Jesus Marie.”

As if on cue, a family of four strolled by. They
stole glances at Sprakie, the dizzy old queens and the dancing
barber. They were clearly sightseeing. Sprakie bounced to his feet,
placing both hands on his hips.

“It fries my ass to be a museum piece for a batch of
tourists who come for nothing except to see how the other
ten-percent live.” The family accelerated. Sprakie shouted. “And
you really don’t see what you could be seeing. I mean, when you go
to the zoo, you see the mating habits of the lions. You should go
on the Trollop tour though this town. You should see what goes on
under the boardwalk. Jesus Marie.”

Sprakie grinned — the old Sprakie, the one that
always lurked in the dunes waiting for the occasional mouse.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced, adopting a
British accent, “on your right is the famous
Boatslip
Lounge
, where the fags come and dance each afternoon and
arrange for afterhour
fooking
. Then, I direct your attention
to the left, where we have a prime example of the sexual proclivity
of the modern
hamosexual
— in this case an average
orghee
of five men. I refer you to your tour book. Match the
pictures to the appropriate sexual act and you will soon see the
importance of this life-style in keeping the population explosion
in check. Videos are available at the trollop stop.”

The family was gone. The queens at
The White
Swan
could have been displayed at Madame Tusaud’s. The barber
returned to his tonsorial duties. Sprakie had shocked the world,
except Old Charlotte, who stretched again just as the sun peered
past the gable.

“Quite a display,” came a sour voice from the
hotel’s threshold.

Sprakie turned. “It’s you — creepyman.”

“Yes.” Flo fiddled with his fingers like a crab. “I
thought you’d be out at the Tea Dance, or somewhere with your legs
in the air and your soles parallel to the ceiling.”

“Been there. Done that. Besides, I’m waiting for
Philip to go to the Tea Dance.”

“Fat chance of that,” Flo scowled. “Whale watching
today and O’Neill tonight. Your chances are slim.”

Sprakie stepped into Flo’s space with an
I’m not
afraid of you
move. “So’s yours, creepyman. Your author squeeze
is squeezing somebody else now.”