Turning Idolater (6 page)

Philip smiled.
Many times. That wasn’t soft
commitment, was it?

“Since I’ve been reading Moby Dick, it’s transformed
me. The words are like . . . paintings — much better than the
DVD.”

“You know that Melville was gay?”

Philip was silent.

“You know Melville?” Thomas asked. “The motherfucker
who wrote the book.”

“Are you making fun of me? Of course, I know who
Melville is.”

“Was, and I am not making fun of you. I am enjoying
the exuberance of your youth. It is infectious.”

“That’s nice,” Philip said, breaking into his
broadest smile, which released that glimpse into his soul — a much
finer display than his sultry strip tease.

“Have you ever seen a whale?” Thomas asked.

“Like in the flesh?”

“No. Like in an aquarium?”

“In books only,” Philip said. “Have you?”

“Yes. At sea.”

“That’s wonderful. I would love to see that. Where
can you do that?”

“At Sea!” Thomas said, giggling. “Actually, at
Provincetown. They have whale-watching excursions.”

“At P’Town. I’ve never been. I’d love to go. They
say the boyz are hot there; and it’s wonderfully gay.”

“And now another reason. Plus, they have some great
new plays performed there. Have you been to the theater?”

“Drags and such,” Philip said. He had been to the
big Drag-queen show at
Splash
and he even traveled to New
Hope for
Santa Saturday and the Leather Daddy Auction.

“Ah! I would like to be with you when you saw your
first live theatrical performance.”

“You would?”

“I would!” Thomas said. “But you know, you never
asked me the question you wanted to ask me and that was ten breaks
ago — almost a full watch from the yardarm.”

Yardarm. Yes, he knew that term now.
He
sighed. “Well, here goes nothing.” He was about to ask the spooky
question, the one that only newbies asked. “How old are you?”

“Forty-eight.”

“That’s not that old,” Philip blurted.

“Who said it was?”

“No one.” Well, he had, in all but
the
word.

“I mean, I have friends who are still alive at
fifty-four,” Thomas countered.

“Oh I didn’t mean . . .”

“Not to worry. I know you are a tad younger than
me.”

“A tad? When you were my age, I wasn’t even born
yet.”

“Now it’s my turn. Bitch!”

“And are you like old and wrinkly; walk with a gimp
and have a hunchback?”

“Actually,” Thomas said, “I am wheel chair bound and
lost a testicle in Vietnam.”

Philip flinched, then remembered he was still on
display. “I’m sorry.”

Thomas roared.

“You bitch!” Philip said. “How could I know?”

“Let’s not make assumptions,” Thomas said. “If you
want to know what I look like, I could email you a photo — a jpeg.
I am quite computer literate for an old fart. Or . . .”

“That would be nice. Perhaps, a naked one. You could
shine up your wheelchair. But, we could like . . .”

“Like what?”

“Meet somewhere.”

Sprakie was shouting in his head now.
Serial
killer.

“That would be fine with me. You won’t mind my
seeing-eye dog?”

“Cut it out. The joke’s stale.” He glanced at his
watch. “I need to get back to work”

“Where?”

“Here, or I’ll lose this job.”

“But you are the main attraction.” Giggle. “I meant,
where shall we meet?”

“Do you know where
The Imperial Coffee Mug
is
in the East Village?”

“Know it well. What day?”

Philip struggled with his mental calendar, which
lately was so empty it was full. “Tonight?” he said.

“Great!”

“I’m off at eleven.”

“Come as you are,” Thomas said. “I will see you
then.”

“See you then.”

“Yes, my angel.”

Click.

Philip closed his eyes. The waves splashed on the
jetties and he could see the distant horizon. The night would drag
on until closing. He knew it.
What will Sprakie think?
Nantucket dissipated at the thought. “I’d better invite him along,
just in case.”
Serial killer.
He wondered if the cell phone
was fully charged yet. Time for that later.

Ctrl-F9
. Back in. Break over.

The early spring chill clung to the evening soul of
the East Village, much like a cold harbor waiting for its crew to
ring the night bell and slurry out to sea. Never slumbering, the
crisscrossed lanes and by-ways sang the song of the alive and the
free, of the adrift and the wandering. These were the carols awake
and acceptable, no map needed to understand the tidal pull; no
liturgy wanted to keep us holy and safe from shoals. Here unfurled
art and tangents, fostering fireworks and introspection in the same
flare — a place in the sun at midnight, where no clock holds our
course to the hour, the month or the year. Only the barkeeps and
drag queens parry regulation, keeping such lore under lock and key
— hymnals emblematic to sailors holding hands in their hammocks
strung by night, never slumbering to the buzz-saw snoring liturgy
held fast within the barkeep’s ring.

Down Christopher Street, lovers strolled, hand in
hand, fingers entwined — men with men — womyn with womyn; and here
and there, the opposite sex found their Republican granted freedom
and followed their gay sister’s example. Drag queens ruled
sidewalks like karaoke boxes. Sassy and fiery, they mustered the
citizenry to the challenge. Leathermen and bears swaggered with
pudding sweetness within the dark clubs and sweat pools. The
accountant fell swiftly into his Shirley Temple watching
gym-bunnies in jockstraps and not much more. Twinks hopped from
corner to corner seeking quick fun and quick cash. The street
teamed with strollers, dog walkers, cruisers, and general trash
disguised as fine dessert. Being Nelly was fine. Being butch was
grand. Everything pierced. Everything spiked. The vortex of the
maelstrom and nothing sleeping. Sleeping was for the suburbs, not
for Christopher Street.

While dance bars ruled the night, chance encounters
called for coffee.
The Imperial Coffee Mug
was a fine place
to exercise such protocols. Facing the street with a broad window
where the java juiced could watch the strollers parade, passers-by
could glimpse at the coffee mavens and their wares. Philip, Sprakie
in tow, shuffled by the window and gazed inside. The place was
packed — mostly young men to middling, but there were a few
croakers hunched alone over their brew cups. Thomas Dye was one of
them, to be sure. The question was . . .

“Now, there’s a question,” Sprakie mused. “I bet
it’s that old troll in the corner.”

Philip frowned.
Probably was
, he thought. He
was the only one in the joint that was old enough to remember how
to write in complete sentences.

“I told you so,” Sprakie said. “Loser or serial
killer.”

Philip poked him in the ribs. “I’m chancing it.”

“Oh, I forgot. You go to the geezers instead of the
Public Library. I hope your Library card doesn’t expire before you
do.”

Philip glared at Sprakie. His heart sank to the
bottom of some imagined ocean. “That can’t be him.”

The old croaker was shabby as if he had darted in
for a coffee break between panhandles. Philip was surprised the
establishment even served him, but
The Imperial Coffee Mug
was, at one time,
The Potherer
, a famous beatnik coffee
house, which often looked like skid row on a Saturday night.
Perhaps this elderly gent had been coming here for years, and if
so, he could very well be the illusive Thomas Dye, writer and
possible ex-beatnik.

“What the fuck,” Philip declared.

“You’re not really going through with this?” Sprakie
cackled. “I mean, distance is his friend. Why dispense with your
only ally?”

Philip’s eye roved to another older gent; one who
looked about forty, although Thomas said he was forty-eight.
However, in chat you could be any age you wanted as long as the
blinders were in place. As Philip gripped on the door handle,
Sprakie returned the rib poke.

“Remember, Miss Romantic Notion, he knows what you
look like. Once in, the Dye is cast, excuse the pun, and then if
you need to blow him off, you’ll waste energy better spent dancing
at
Splash
.”

Philip hesitated, and then pulled the door open. “I
can’t afford the cover at
Splash.
”

The place reeked of cigarettes, even though the law
said otherwise. Years of heavy smoking housed a permanent tobacco
aroma within the wallpaper. This was mixed with a blend of various
coffees from across the seven seas. A delicious and enticing blend
drew Philip past the coffee bar to the window seats. As he
approached, the old shabby troll raised his eyes. He had been
reading a tattered newspaper. He tucked it under his arm and
stood.

“Shit,” Philip mumbled.

“Too late,” Sprakie giggled.

The man shuffled from his table and walked toward
Philip.

“Philip,” came a voice and it wasn’t from croaker,
who had passed him by. “Philip. Over here.”

Philip turned. To his delight, the man who harkened
was neither shabby nor withered. He had a short-cropped goatee and
a hairline sufficiently receded as to qualify for bald, but he was
a looker. His eyes sparked blue. His lips bowed a smile over sail
white teeth that had a slight space that beckoned Philip even at
this distance. The Flaxen One delivered himself tableside, a mate
eager to be whistled aboard.

“Thomas?” Philip queried, and hoped, but knew,
because he knew the voice.

“Ishmael?” Thomas countered. He arose and gave
Philip a friendly hug.

First contact and Philip felt a surge. He had never
felt such a homecoming as this, and he had been beyond a hug in
every port.

“Ishmael?” Sprakie said. “Wrong guy, Philip. Nice
meeting you sir.”

“Shut-up Sprakie,” Philip said. “You wouldn’t
understand. It’s from my book.”

“Oh,
the Book.
Well, pardon me for
breathing.”

Philip pulled Sprakie aside — just a brief aside and
well within Thomas’ earshot. “Don’t fuck this up for me,” he
whispered. He then turned back to Thomas. “Thomas, this is my
sister, Sprakie.”

“Sprakie? I’ve seen you. Robert? From manluv?”

“Just call me the chaperone,” Sprakie said.

Philip jostled Sprakie before he could get on a
roll. “I wasn’t sure what you looked like,” Philip jabbered. “I
mean, you’ve seen me . . .”

“From top to bottom,” Sprakie snapped. .

“I’m just glad it’s you,” Philip stammered. “I mean
. . .”

He glanced at the departing croaker.

Thomas roared. “You thought that that older gent was
. . . Then, I take it you are surprised that I am not on my last
legs.”

“Told you he’d have a wooden leg,” Sprakie said.

“Shhh. Thomas, don’t pay him any attention.”

“I never do,” Thomas said, showing that glorious
dental space.

“Ouch,” Sprakie said. “That’s a low blow. It may
turn out that I like you after all.”

Thomas invited Philip to sit. Sprakie, fulfilling
his chaperone duties slid into the fray like a Duenna at a
bullfight. Thomas raised an eyebrow, and Philip shrugged.

“Coffee?” Thomas asked

“Never touch the stuff,” Philip said.

“Then why here?”

“Welcome to
Hustle Central
, Mr. Dye,” Sprakie
said.

“They call it that,” Philip said, “but that’s not
necessarily true in all cases.” He didn’t want Thomas to think that
he was a common hustler. In fact, he was an uncommon hustler and
places like
The Imperial Coffee Mug
was not his cup of tea
when it came to pinching the herd.

“Well, maybe something sweet then?” Thomas asked. “A
turnover?”

Philip smiled.
A turnover would be just the
thing.
“Apple, if you please.” He winked as Thomas scooted to
the coffee bar.

“Well, Ishmael,” Sprakie said, “he’s obviously
passed the
looks
test — not by my standards, but you cruise
on a bell curve. So since you’re going to play this forward, follow
Aunt Sprakie’s next rule of thumb. Find out whether he has any
marketable securities.”

Philip chuckled, but leaned close to Robert
Sprague’s diamond bejeweled ear.

“Actually, when he gets back, you’re going to tell
me that you have a hot date and need to leave right away.”

“You bitch,” Sprakie said, and not unkindly. “You
won’t even let me come along and watch the double scoop of ice
cream for dessert? I can make change, you know. Who’s going work
the credit card machine? Who’s going operate the winch to pry you
two apart?”

“A hot date,” Philip said underscoring the directive
with a pout and an astringent glare. He meant business. “You have .
. . a hot . . . hot date.”

“Well, little Ishie,” Sprakie said. “If you insist.
What’s this hot date look like? Well, whoever he is, he’ll be age
appropriate.”

Philip rapped the table. “Why are you pestering me
about his age? It isn’t the first time I’ve seen an older man.”

“This one’s much older than he looks. If I didn’t
know better, I’d say he’s been cruising Miss Abelard’s schoolyard
every day.”

“Shhh. He’s coming back.”

Thomas returned fumbling turnovers in waxy
napkins.

“What, none for me?” Sprakie said.

Thomas shrugged, and then sighed. Sprakie seemed
determined on dampening the occasion. Suddenly, Thomas broke off a
piece of his turnover and offered it across the table.

“I’m on a diet, Professor Dye.”

“I am not a Professor. I am a writer.”

“I know. I know. But don’t you author types wind up
professing somewhere? You know, when the book sales hit the skids
and sell on the
used
racks only.”