Turning Idolater (23 page)

“Jesus, Marie. You’re an actor waiting for the next
stage cue, aren’t you?”

Thomas laughed, releasing Philip. “That I am, and
more. Only I do not need a cue.”

The four men paused — a long pause, each
contemplating their own sphere and its intersection. Then, from the
tall grass along the fence, a gray tail waved a warning. Into the
center of this quartet jumped a solo act — a fat, puffy Maine
Coon.

“Jesus, Marie. What the fuck is that?”

Thomas roared. “Come Flo. Show me the mail.”

He followed Flo up the porch, laughing the entire
way. Philip stared at the Maine Coon’s wake as it scurried across
the street into
The White Swan’s
hedges. Philip would wear
something fetching to the Tea Dance — not Izod, but fashionable. He
gazed at Sprakie’s thong and chuckled. There was a time that such a
thing would be the ticket — the choice of smart hustlers. However,
he didn’t need to hustle anymore, owner as he was of a first
edition and kept in the fussy charge of a man of erudition.
Thong
.
Izod.
He was dressing himself since he was
this high. He’d manage to do it again.

“I won’t be long,” he said to Sprakie.

“I don’t want to see you come back in a button down
sweater and a beanie hat.”

Philip chuckled. As he gained the top step,
something lumbered across the threshold.

“Old Charlotte.” He hunkered down and kissed the
great beast’s head. “Do you want to come to the Tea Dance? Naked as
you are, you’re better dressed than . . . I am. Or him.” He pointed
to Sprakie.

“Don’t be long. I don’t want to get dregs at the
bottom of the Margarita pitcher or the last jack-off under the
boardwalk.”

Philip smiled. “Bite him,” he said. “He’s a bad, bad
man.”

The Boatslip
rocked — from its inner dance
floor to its wide, expansive deck. Every
hoohoo
who wanted
to be seen or to gawk, strutted at the Tea Dance under the
Provincetown sun. The liquor flowed as much as the tide that lashed
over jetties and swept to the boardwalk. All the fashion statements
were made — a hundred times a hundred. The
thumpa-thumpa
rhythms shook the planking and vibrated the air, the gulls hovering
in wait for a discarded hot dog or an abandoned plate of chips.
Through the wild siren of music, the beautiful people played their
games — the cruise and the strut, the camp and the flame. Chests
were bared and accented with kerchiefs. Waists were wrapped in tee
shirts. Shorts, colorful and skimpy — knees bronzed, legs supple,
and mouths dripping with the latest gossip and vodka
concoctions.

Philip raised his sunglasses as he scanned the sun
baking
The Boatslip’s
gray green roof — a modern addition,
unlike the Victorian gables and mansard roofs typical to the Cape.
He spied loungers by the pool and the clotted clusters of flesh
taking their ease on
The Boatslip’s
rail. The breeze, scant
now in the late afternoon arena, abandoned the grasses and the
Maine Coon’s tail.

Philip grinned. There was the aroma of men here —
men courting men, a cotillion of debutantes flaunting their studied
courtesies, the rules of attraction — mating. Philip knew it well.
Look out to space and glance only quickly. Never stir too much
interest until the right one appears — the one who you want for
dessert.
However, Philip wasn’t shopping. Despite this, his
well-learned lessons had become instinctive by now. His eyes darted
back under the protection of the sunglasses, and he scanned the
line-up — the bare chests and wiggling asses as if he had any
interest in them beyond his anchorage to Tee.

Sprakie jabbered and twisted. He wiggled and
waggled, and even flung his hands toward the sky with the
occasional
Jesus Marie
, an act that brought sure attention
and scared the gulls.

“There’s one for you,” he said to Philip. He latch
onto Philip’s arm, tugging him in the direction of a beefy man in
spandex — a man who must have lived in the gym for such moments as
Tea Dances. “He’s as hard as a totem pole and don’t you think he
doesn’t know it, the sassy bitch.”

Philip slid his glasses down and took a direct look.
“You know what they say,” he commented. “Big pecs — little
pecker.”

“Don’t gawk. Put your glasses back on. Jesus Marie,
didn’t I teach you nothing.”

Philip took the sunglasses off. “I’m not really
interested.”

Sprakie frowned. “You’re no fun anymore. Where’s the
spry boy I found on my doorstep, dripping wet and full of
sass?”

“He’s still here,” Philip said. “He’s just a bit
more focused.”

“Hell, he is.” Sprakie pulled Philip away from the
railing. “Now walk with me. Let’s go in and find us a dance
partner. That should rekindle your interest. You need to be less
focused on the old farts. You always liked a young buck in heat.
There’s enough heat here to fire the furnaces of hell.”

Philip halted. “I’m just fine. I’m looking and like
what I see. I’m not dead, you know.”

“Could have fooled me. You’re just thinking that Mr.
Dye would regard any physical contact with any of these specimens
as a complete disregard for this silly romantic notion you have
that you need a father figure in your life.”

Philip’s eyes flared. “That’s cruel, you know.”

“Well, he’s old enough to be your father.”

“It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t get me wrong. If he’s loaded, and it appears
that he is, I approve of sucking his bank account dry, but as you
constantly tell me, you’re not living off the fat of the land.”

Sprakie was fishing again, and Philip knew it. Once
a week an inquiry was made seeking the source of Philip’s income.
If you had the jack, why did you wind up on my doorstep;
and
your lottery was won very convenient to your hooking up with Mr.
Dye
. Philip would gladly tell Sprakie about the
first
edition
, but Sprakie pressured him in a manner that Philip
needed to defy. And now, and not for the first time, Sprakie was
accusing him of some Freudian venture in search for a new father.
Philip had one father and didn’t need another one, thank you very
much. Philip snapped the glasses back on.

“Yes, as I say, I’m a man of independent
wealth.”

“If you had the jack, why . . .”

“Robert.” Sprakie winced. “I didn’t have the jack
when I showed up at your door. I acquired it in a way that was a
mystery even to me, but Tee showed me the light, and now I can
choose my own course.”

“Can you?” Sprakie sneered. “You’re much the same
when it comes to that. You’re as naïve as they come. Whether you
found a lucky bag of marbles or the pot at the end of the rainbow,
there’s no future between you two.”

Philip blew an angry puff and turned toward the sea.
His fingers crabbed. His chest heaved. “We’re friends, but you’re
pushing it.”

Sprakie grabbed his shoulders. “We
are
friends. You’re supposed to listen to friends. Especially when
friends see things that you’re too blinded by puppy love to
see.”

“It’s not puppy love.”

“Well, whatever it is, there’s something going on
here that doesn’t meet the eye. If you’re too bullheaded to
recognize that, then you need me more than ever to point things
out.”

Philip pouted. He wasn’t naïve. There were things he
didn’t understand. Florian Townsend made sure that Philip was kept
uncomfortable in the undertow, the deep currents that ran below the
several connections that could not be coincidental. However, Philip
felt he could steer himself around such shoal water. He turned to
allay Sprakie’s fears with something like
No relationship is
perfect
, or some other handy device, when his eyes caught
something that
did
attract him. He slipped the glasses down
again. Sprakie followed the glance.

“What? What do you see, or rather who?”

Philip saw a young man with rather pale skin and
scant musculature arching his back against the building. He had a
red bandana around his neck and wore green shorts — neon green
shorts — surely a lighthouse for the searching.

“He’s a scrawny bitch,” Sprakie commented.

Philip didn’t answer. He left the railing and the
sun, heading into the shadow of
The Boatslip’s
roof.

The guy in green shorts was relaxed and didn’t seem
to be playing any of the Tea Dance games, although to wear such
neon markers at such an event was a clear signal that he was
available. However, Sprakie was correct. The man was scrawny, in
need of a two-day pass at Gold’s Gym and a few hours under the sun
lamps — not great competition for the muscular hunks that strutted
their wares beneath the hovering gulls.

Philip, however, was not in the market for anyone’s
cast-off. He was attracted by more than a pair of neon green
shorts. He approached the young man, who notice this approach and
scooted away, but not before giving Philip the regulated
side-glance and the beckoning back-glance at twenty paces. It was a
different kind of dance than the one inside
The Boatslip
—
prelude to a score that any denizen of Provincetown, New York, San
Francisco or the Vatican could relate to the uninitiated. However,
Philip was not bait on this line. He broke the rule.

“Hey,” he called. “Don’t I know you?”

The green short’s guy stopped in his tracks. He
turned about, and then sallied forth toward Philip. “Don’t you have
a better line than . . .” His mouth twitched. “Hell, I think I
do
know you. But . . .”

“Quantum Physics,” Philip said.

“Yes. Hell, that was some time ago. I mean, I’m
still in school, but . . . Hey, you were on the subway. I gave you
my number.” Then the man frowned. “You never called.”

“Sorry. I got tied up that night.”

“So you’re into that, are you?”

Philip laughed. “No. Not that. I had . . .”

“A better offer. Well, I’m Dennis. How are you set
now?”

“Philip. I’m in a relationship.”

Dennis nodded. “Well, nice to have met you again,
Philip.” He turned.

“No, wait.”

Dennis did so, his deep eyes catching Philip’s
interest, and Philip was interested . . . in something, but he
didn’t know what. Perhaps he could ask Tee whether he could stray a
little.
Isn’t that a silly notion
— not the straying, but
the asking.
Maybe Tee would be up for something different.
That’s just what Philip needed — another piece of meat in this
relationship. Weren’t Sprakie and Flo enough? Still.

“Yes?” Dennis said.

“Nothing. I mean, I’m in a relationship, but that
doesn’t mean I can’t have friends. I mean I’m here with a friend.”
He nodded toward Sprakie, who was chatting up a tall, swimmer-type
who wore almost as much as Sprakie did.

“You’re with the screamer? Is that your . . .”

“No. He’s back at the hotel — We’re at
The Pink
Swallow
.”

Dennis leaned on the wall, relaxing again. “We’re at
The Crown and Anchor
.”

“We.”

“A bunch of randy friends. Mostly the school crowd.
They’re scattered in the crowd . . . fishing.” He chuckled. “So why
is your partner inside on a glorious day like this?”

“He’s a writer. Working. We were out already
today.”

“Once a day?”

“No. We went whale watching.”

Now, Philip was man watching, although he would deny
it. He felt the spin of flesh before him, the same feeling he had
when he had first spied this young engineering student on the
subway in the dim days of
manluv
. He wanted to be strong,
and he would be. He was only talking — small talk.
The talk of
courtship.
Philip noticed that Sprakie occasionally glanced at
him. He thought that Robert would be pleased by this departure from
the solitary stance, but Sprakie didn’t appear pleased. With every
glance was something not far short of venom.

“Whale watching? Did you see any?”

“Two. Big ones. Wonderful . . . would you like a
drink?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because I feel like one and they won’t serve
me.”

Dennis laughed. “What would you like?”

“A beer. I have simple tastes.”

“I like that. So do I?”

“I bet — quantum physics.”

Dennis caught the
thumpa-thumpa
rhythm. “I’ll
give you quantum physics. Do you dance?”

Philip smiled. He touched Dennis’ hand. It clasped
like Velcro. In the near distance the gulls cawed and Sprakie
frowned. In the far distance, the Maine Coon stretched and another
pair of eyes watched — eyes happy to catch Philip’s obvious
straying to this guy in green shorts. Envious eyes. Agent’s
eyes.

Florian Townsend didn’t mean to spy on Philip. At
least, that’s what he told himself. However, when Thomas drifted
into the author’s zone, pounding on the keyboard, Flo’s small talk
only managed to annoy him. So Florian abandoned the confines of the
room for his own, smaller, stuffier cabana. All the rooms were tiny
spaces, deceptively so, because
The Pink Swallow’s
exterior
appeared expansive, tokening interior suites with sunbathed rooms
and airy sea breezes. No suites. No airy spaces or breezes. The
walls were ribbed, thick with several seasons of battleship gray
paint, and sturdy against the brine. A dresser and stick chair and
a single bed, with a thin mattress, completed the elements. A
toilet in a closet was a luxury, as most guests used the communal
drains and showerheads. Mr. Townsend had a private throne, although
when he used it, he had scarcely room enough to reach the paper
roll and wipe, his knees crunched to the wall, his elbows clenched
close for balance. Tee and Philip had better accommodations — a
double bed, a writing desk, an electrical outlet and a narrow
balcony overlooking the sea. Flo’s room, like Sprakie’s on the
floor above, faced Commercial Street. A flat expanse of gravel
poured on the porch’s roof served as a sundeck, although Flo rarely
used it.