Turning Idolater (24 page)

Mr. Townsend left Tee’s room for this closet space,
perhaps to nap like an old dog in the quiet of his kennel. However,
before he could shut his eyes, the
yahoo
Cowboys, who had
the room on the right, decided that this was a good time for a
buckaroo holiday —
yippee ki yay.
Whatever rodeo event they
unfurled included plenty of lasso, calf tying and a round of bronco
busting. The rickety mattress squeaked a loud hoedown, shaking the
gray painted walls. If that weren’t enough, the Lesbians who had
taken the room on his left, found this a great time to frolic on
the balcony. They scraped the wooden porch chairs across the gravel
and called to friends walking along Commercial Street with the
gusto of a tenement in the Bronx. Flo quit any attempt at a nap,
deciding to walk to the East End and watch the kiting.

As Flo trundled toward the East End, Commercial
Street narrowing by degrees, the infectious
thumpa-thumpa
of
the Tea Dance buzzed through the street. Suddenly, he thought that
a gin and tonic might hit the spot. He had already past
The
Boatslip
, but it was an easy step back to the low, rambling
hotel’s archway. The sun was too hot now, he reckoned; so to shade,
a drink and a bit of flesh spotting. It sure beat kite watching,
and certainly topped noisy Cowboys and Lesbians. He sauntered under
the archway into the Hotel’s bar, plowed his way through the rabble
for a drink and then slipped out the side door toward the pool. He
meant to find an umbrella and a soft seat. Instead, he found
Sprakie — arms akimbo,
Jesus Marie-ing
in fine fashion.
Just what was needed — Not.
However, Philip was there also,
relaxing on the rail. So Florian slipped to the fencing and tried
to remain unnoticed. He generally didn’t need to try. His overall
appearance, especially now in clam diggers and a boater shirt,
didn’t recommend him to the trawling. That’s when he found the
spying
(he wouldn’t have called it that) became
interesting.

Philip was cruising. He was trying to pick-up a most
uninteresting creature in very interesting neon green shorts.
Florian kept one eye on Sprakie, his lips on the drink and the
other eye on Philip’s progress. He witnessed Philip make the first
move and touch the green-shorts guy’s hand. Then, they were off. So
was Florian.

Flo moved quickly at first, past the array of
non-swimming swimmers, careful not to draw attention from Sprakie.
Sprakie seemed to be watching Philip too.
Odd?
Then, Philip
turned, his head cocked toward the pool. Flo turned away. He raised
his hand to his face as if that could hide his lanky limbs and
sallow skin. However, after a shuffle toward the pool, he peeked to
see if he had blown his cover. Philip was gone.

Dancing
, Flo thought, and scurried out of the
pool area, returning to the shadows of the bar. The place was
jammed, but he managed to slip through, not without some pushing
and dirty looks from the patrons. He had lost his drink somewhere.
Perhaps he had left it by the pool. He didn’t care now. He tripped
over the threshold onto the dance floor. To spot anyone in this
bull pit generally would be impossible. There was flesh gyrating
from boardwalk to the DJ booth. Couples danced, and trios, and the
occasional
pas de quatre
, however, the tangle of motion
would make it difficult to pinpoint an individual, if it were not
for . . . the green shorts. They shouted across the dance floor.
Flo grinned.

Philip was in grand form, his shoulders screwing
left and right, while his hips swayed, bumping the green clad lad’s
ass with every other
Thumpa-thumpa
. The lad reciprocated,
and soon their fingers entwined as Philip clutched the guy back to
front. They entered the mock hump mode with flying colors, many
couples flaring in a similar manner, some more intense than others.
Florian measured Philip’s intensity as mode
r
ate, but
somewhere in the mind bellows, there raised a more sinister breeze.
Flo had seen enough.

Suddenly, someone shoved him aside. It was too
deliberate to be the press of the crowd. He turned on the
offender.

“You,” he said.

“Yes, me.” Sprakie gazed at the dance floor. He
winked. “So, creepy man, what are you waiting for? What are you
going to do about it?”

Flo grinned, and then departed.

A gull called to Thomas Dye through the curtains.
Its
screee
broke through the writing zone, causing the
author to raise his eyes. The gull hovered over the back balcony,
as if waiting to be fed.

“What’s with you?” Thomas asked. “You have something
to say?”

As he stood to address the bird’s warning, it flew
seaward, leaving a white splat on the weather worn railing.

“Nice,” Thomas said. He went to the toilet closet,
snatched some tissue, daubing it in the commode. He gathered a
sheet of letter paper from the desk, tucking it under his arm, and
then emerged into the sun. The heat kissed his bare shoulders and
warmed his chest beneath his cut-off tee shirt. He attacked the
bird shit, careful not to spread it too much or to pollute his
keyboard fingers. “Messy bird. Dirty bird.” He thought he heard a
screee
at some distance as if the creature cursed him back.
It was an amusing thought that raised a smile.

Thomas Dye stretched his arms skyward, the letter
paper in one hand, and the tissue in the other. He tossed the
tissue over the side, hoping that the wind would take it beyond the
jetty, and then opened the paper. He smiled as he read:

“
For my Flaxen One

I gently draw the blinds

The sun playing on the bed where my lover still
sleeps;

The light fans his naked chest,

His wondrous thighs,

And I am lost to thinking.

How have we come so far?

Despite a world of hate and fear,

We managed to share our kingdoms,

With a good deal of struggle

As kingdoms will fight for sovereignty to the
end.

Now, in the morning breeze,

He turns his ass in the sunlight

And no matter the struggle,

No matter the siege,

He has my heart and my kingdom’s soul,

And I return to that ass in the sunlight.”

Philip,
he thought.
What am I about here?
How will this end?
Somehow, he hoped it would never end, but
the world always turned on bright beginnings and dark endings. His
whole life, from failure to success, had been a series of fine
dawns and cold sunsets.
If a man lives long enough, he could see
every candle lit go dark in the loam.
He spied the gull, far
off now, in flight to the East End and he wondered if it was
anyone’s hope that such spirits should be caged.
Philip
, he
thought. His heart swam to sea.

“Taking a break?”

It was Flo. Thomas hadn’t heard him enter, but it
didn’t matter. Mr. Townsend was a light tread in his mind now, and
even lighter in his heart. It was business.

“All work and no play,” Thomas said still facing the
sea. He knew Flo would manage to turn him around eventually. No
haste here. No haste. Suddenly, the letter paper left his hand —
seized. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a peek at your progress. I’ve been waiting
for something substantial on that damned
Bright Darkness
manuscript for six months. I’m entitled to see more than research
notes and . . .” Flo starred at the poem, his eyebrows raising, his
lips forming their natural sneer. “Why, what’s this?”

“Personal,” Thomas said, trying to swipe the work
back. “Not for you to read.”

“Too late,” Flo grumbled. “Very pretty. Very pretty,
indeed.”

Thomas ripped the work from Flo’s hand, but the
damage was done. The poem was digested and had already made it
through the spleen.

“Damn it, Flo. You cannot read everything I write.
You are not entitled to my every thought.”

Thomas abandoned the sunlight, slipping back to the
desk.

“I wish I knew what you’re thinking, Tee. I wish,
because I would say this little project has gone too far.”

Thomas slammed his fist on the desk, the legs of
which wobbled. “You are full of shit, you know. I said I would
write this damn thing. I went about it with my usual fervor. I
cannot help it if the material has grown wild like the fucking
weeds that infest your mind.”

Flo was cool. He shrugged and appeared almost
apologetic. “Don’t take me wrong, Tee. I’m all for progress. I
believe in verity and slice-of-life. I was brought up on it, but I
must say, you’re smitten.”

“So what if I am? I am old enough to know my heart.
You miss that quality in me, I know, but if you think you are going
to draw me out into one of our full scale battles, you have the
wrong man.”

“You are certainly old enough, and I guess Philip is
sufficiently young enough. It makes for a good play, but the
curtain must come down some time.”

Thomas clenched his fists. He sat on the bed
starring at Flo with dagger eyes. He knew what was coming next, or
at least, he thought he knew. Little did he know. “Lay it on me,
Flo. Give me the May to December lecture. I have heard it before
and am anxious to see if you can be more creative with it this
time.”

Flo cracked his knuckles. “Very well. I’m just
disappointed that you’re wasting your valuable time on pretty
verses for a hustler who’s playing you like an old cuckold in a
Fletcher comedy.”

“Fuck you,” Thomas bellowed.

Flo moistened his lips, ready to suck away.

“You’ll never guess where I’ve just been.” He paused
for effect. “
The Boatslip
. The Tea Dance. And you’ll never
guess who I saw there.”

“I know he went to the Tea Dance, Flo. He went with
Sprakie.”

“But he wasn’t with Sprakie.”

Thomas trembled. Somehow, as much as he found
Sprakie abrasive, he still regarded him as a chaperone. “So you are
saying what?”

“He was with an attractive young dude, who wore the
most fetching pair of green shorts I have ever seen.”

“So what. You cannot go to a dance and live in a
bubble.”

“Oh, he wasn’t in a bubble. No. No bubble. He was
prancing up a storm, crotch to ass in a grinder and having a great
time.”

Thomas sniffed. “He is supposed to have a great
time.”

“At his time of life, of course. Couldn’t agree with
you more. But Tee, I would take it as a message — a signal of
things to come.”

Thomas stood. “Please leave me.”

“Of course,” Flo said. He nodded as if he had
performed a great service for a kindred soul. He said no more, but
headed through the door.

Thomas, stunned but not surprised, drifted on a
sorry wave to the balcony. The sun wasn’t warm now. It was just hot
— too damn hot for its own good or anyone else’s. He looked to sea,
the waves angry upon the jetties. Suddenly, the page in his hand
was slick. He gazed at it, trying to suppress a tear. He crumpled
it in his fist, and then tossed it over the side, hoping that the
wind would take it past the jetty.

Philip. Philip.

Thomas Dye wept.

Philip returned to
The Pink Swallow
alone — a
little tipsy, but nothing that he couldn’t handle. He had mastered
his hormones, departing from Dennis on tenuous terms.
Perhaps
later
, he thought. Dennis had been drinking more than Philip
had and was less inclined to wait. Still, the world turned on such
moments — soft promises and hard intensions. As for Sprakie, Philip
couldn’t find him and assumed that Robert had corralled a passel of
bulls to keep him busy — the credit card machine churning for the
balance of the day.

Philip looked toward the declining sun. He was
probably late for the theatre —
late
being his
modus
operandi
. However, it was just a play after all, even if it did
star the incomparable Lars Hamilton. Philip slogged up the porch
stairs and, upon reaching the top, sat beside Old Charlotte, who
had returned for a late afternoon nap. Philip kissed and then
hugged him. He thought of his Ahab teddy bear, left behind at
The Papillon Arms.
Old Charlotte’s coat was as soft as
Ahab’s fur. Philip smiled.

“Hey, girl. You old beast.” Old Charlotte licked
Philip’s face from chin to eye. “That tickles. You smell the beer,
don’t you? I bet those queens tank you up in the evening so you can
sleep. I mean, you sleep all day, so nights must be tough.”

Philip thought of nighttime. His nights were a time
for renewal. He had never known such security before, deep in Tee’s
arms. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept in his own room.
He would go there to strip and grab Ahab, and then toddle down the
hall to the master bedroom. Tee would be waiting; and after the
lovemaking, they would cuddle, Thomas quoting Melville or Dickens
or King. It was remarkable what a photographic memory could muster.
It was so very . . .
settling
. They were like two seasoned
fairies in the hammocks, or couples sitting around a table
balancing pink checkbooks, deciding on the best marinade for the
Sunday Pot Roast.
Settling.

Philip hugged Old Charlotte again, and then thought
of Dennis. He knew nothing about this young engineering major, who
seemed as randy as a buck on the lea, and who danced with vigor,
like Pan in the undergrowth awaiting an opportunity to pull out his
pipes and have his way.
Unsettling.
What had Philip known
about the others — before Tee? Not much, if anything. True, Sprakie
would encourage him to solicit some level of investment
opportunity. Good job? Big spender? Marketable securities? Still,
the hormones drew Philip wherever they guided him. He was no
different from any other twenty-year-old on the make — but now; he
had softened and liked it. Although, on the dance floor, with
Dennis pinioned on his crotch — green shorts on beige cut-offs, the
desire to bandana Ahab’s eyes and drag Dennis off into the high
grasses was a powerful urge to suppress. Philip sighed, and then
squeezed Old Charlotte’s head. Thoughts of Ahab returned.