Best Gay Romance 2013 (7 page)

I had taken great care in dressing to meet Ann, perhaps a tad over the top, only to be informed by Tom that he had only secured
one
backstage pass. Setting a new record for the transformation from romantic possibility to platonic nobody during the cab ride between downtown and my dramatic Caesars entrance, I felt like the Christians being introduced to the lions. Suddenly trapped
in a black-and-white RKO budget picture, I was a plucky hero pining for Technicolor, Cinemascope, and Stereophonic Sound. When a lonely boy knows he's different, but
doesn't
know there are at least ten percent more like him in the universe, and is raised on a steady diet of old movies, he can't help but aspire to glamor. I knew I didn't belong in downtown Las Vegas. I belonged in Caesars Palace, hobnobbing with the high rollers.

Ann, thank goodness, did not disappoint. Seated close enough to the stage that if she'd taken another tumble, as she did in Lake Tahoe in 1972, we could have caught her—and the eye of any press photographer in the pop of a flashbulb. After watching her sing and gyrate for two and a half hours, and guzzling one vodka-infused drink after another, my now-former date went around to the back with his original
Bye Bye Birdie, The Pleasure Seekers,
and
Bus Riley's Back in Town
posters, leaving me to my own devices. Exploring the casino, I plunked myself in front of a slot machine, accepted a complimentary cocktail from a woman dressed as an extra from
Troy
, and lost twenty bucks in ten seconds flat. Not sure how long Tom's assignation with Ann would take, and not having enough money to keep losing, I wandered out of the casino and into the hotel. In a rather obscure passageway linking Nero's all-night buffet, Cleopatra's disco Barge, and an exclusive restaurant named Bacchanal (which plugged toga'ed attendants massaging sacred oils into your neck while you ate), rose a marvelous staircase, all gilt rails and plush ruby carpet, stretching to where I wasn't sure; but my inner Nancy Drew had been activated and I was eager to find out. Never being one to pass on an opportunity to make life more like the movies, I climbed the stairs two at a time, paused at the top, whirled in a dramatic fashion, and began descending, arms outstretched, visions of Lana Turner in
Ziegfeld Girl
swirling in my head.

About two tap steps down, I remembered that Lana's character died in that film, so I wasn't drawing upon the most positive movie reference. Nor was Norma Desmond's close-up in
Sunset Boulevard
a good role model
. Hello Dolly!
and
Mame
were too obvious and far too queeny, even for a musical queen like me. I had no Rhett Butler to whisk me up, and there were too many steps to effectively re-create Bette Davis gunning down her lover in
The Letter.
I went back to Ziegfeld. Rewinding, I became Hedy Lamarr slinking downward to a chorus of “You Stepped Out of a Dream” that played in the soundtrack of my imagination. Halfway down, I eyeballed a cute guy in a black tuxedo at the foot of the staircase, looking like he stepped out of a dream. About this same time, a slot machine in the casino rewarded a Midwesterner with a jackpot.

“Yee-haw!”

The guy looked back up at me, and burst out laughing.

I mentioned earlier I had dressed a bit over the top: I was wearing a tux. And why not? I'd had one for years with no occasion to put it to use, until now. To me, Vegas means Sinatra, Steve and Eydie, and Bugsy Siegel, with well-heeled patrons tumbling from casino to showroom along the Strip soused on martinis and chewing cigars, garbed in fashions from Armani and Versace. Or in my case, Calvin Klein, whose tuxedo design I'd nabbed at a department store clearance sale. After partying into the wee hours, I'd expected Tom and me to stagger into our room and consummate the evening with a tumble onto the requisite circular bed while the mirrors on the ceiling reflected our every decadent act. Roll credits, end of story.

Of course, our hotel room was nothing like that, and even if there had been a second backstage pass, I don't think I'd have consummated anything. Right now, however, I was alone and in
my element—glamor and just a hint of mystery with a stranger at the foot of the stairs. And whoever he was, he was about to join my movie, whether he liked it or not. Nicely draped in his own tuxedo.

Except he was still laughing at me. No longer Hedy Lamarr, I marched down the remaining steps, now in tough-guy Jimmy Cagney mode, hoping he wasn't a house detective about to bounce me from the joint.

“What's so funny?”

He said, “You look like you're having a good time.”

“I am,” I replied, as if I made a living walking up and down hotel staircases. At the last step, and to my amazement, I discovered I stood two inches taller than him. I didn't think there could be anyone shorter than me, yet he was, although what he lacked in height he made up in muscle, apparent from the thick forearm exposed as he extended his hand, and covered with a healthy amount of body hair of the Robin Williams variety. Behind us, another jackpot echoed in the casino.

“I'm Bill.”

I shook his hand and lost myself in his eyes, which were hidden behind glasses. I'd popped my contacts in before I left the hotel, but left the all-essential drops in the room. The smoke in the air was making me squint, and I wondered if Caesars' amenities included an all-night drugstore.

“Did you see Ann-Margret's show?”

“Yes. I especially liked the number where she sang and danced with her old film clips.” Oddly, I now pointed out, Ann had looked younger now than she had in her
Birdie
days. After saying that, I hoped Bill didn't think I was too bitchy.

“Have you seen the pool?” It was a charming non sequitur.

I shook my head and we, two penguins, walked outside. The
deserted pool was oversized, like everything at Caesars (except my new acquaintance), and decorated in a
Roman Holiday
motif. The fresh November air, dry as vermouth and windy and warm, had the same effect on me as a bushel of raw oysters. I eyed Bill much like a cat does a canary.

“Where are you from?” we both said at the same time.

“Los Angeles,” we both answered.

This was an incredible run of luck. Had I not been so interested in continuing my conversation with Bill, I knew I could have run in, plopped a hundred on the roulette wheel, and doubled my bet.

“My friends are backstage getting her autograph.” Bill said.

With that, I might as well have been Cinderella—wearing a watch with a dead battery—who hears the village clock strike midnight. Tom! My date-in-name-only. He had paid for the show tickets. Yikes.

I was glad the pool area was discreetly lit, as I knew my eyes had bugged out. “My…friend is probably looking for me.”

“Boyfriend?” Bill asked.

I shook my head. He too had mentioned friends. I prayed that was plural.

“Boyfriend?” I queried, holding my breath.

“No. Let's go back in.” And there, in the stillness, beside the shimmering pool reflecting faux-ancient columns and pseudo-classical statuary, with the lights of the Strip illuminating the sky above us in a Technicolor rainbow, Bill leaned over to kiss me, and there was nothing faux or pseudo about it. Bingo.

Okay, so he wasn't
that
much shorter than me.

During the walk back into the casino, my sense of honor attacked me. I had come to Las Vegas with Tom, and even if things hadn't worked out, manners dictated I should remain with him. I'd been on the receiving end of being dropped more
often than I cared to remember, and it wasn't a pretty feeling. The polite thing, the honorable thing, would be to get Bill's number and call him later.

Or I could tell Tom
See ya
and drag Bill to the nearest poker table. We'd fit easily under the green tablecloth.

For years I'd been the good boy with the straight A's. I was entitled to a little selfishness. And if Bill turned out to be a mass murderer, well, so be it. It wasn't the first time I'd gambled on romance and come up short—make that lost.

The casino was swarming with activity, except around Tom, who stood tapping his foot impatiently where we had parted earlier. What a difference twenty minutes can make!

“Where have you been?” he said, eyeing Bill as if his lamb had come back to the pen accompanied by a miniature wolf.

I can be pretty quick with my back against the wall. I did a double take. “Oh! Why, this is…Bill. He's from…Los Angeles. Small world, isn't it? Bill, don't you know…Tom?” I hoped this cocktail party chatter made it seem as if we were all old friends.

I needed to go no further with my charade. Bill's friends Ray and Greg, also tuxedo-clad, popped over clutching programs. Never before or since have I felt as if I'd fallen through a film screen and right into a classic screwball comedy. If Carole Lombard and William Powell strolled up, I would not have been surprised.

“I've been invited to go with some of Ann's friends—” Tom said, his voice fading out after
go
. Just where they were going escapes me now. Maybe Ann-Margret herself had seen Tom in the front row clutching his posters and was spiriting him away for a private screening. Whatever the destination, I knew providence was removing Tom. I needed to offer a novena, at my earliest convenience, to thank the patron saint in charge of romance. “I have my key, so I'll see you back at the hotel,” I
answered, hoping
back at the hotel
meant tomorrow around the time we caught the cab to the airport. It probably was not the most tactful dump, but I didn't care. This was a magic moment, and I was going to hope for a royal flush. I could blame it on the staircase and the Stoli.

With Tom conveniently removed, I got acquainted with Bill and his friends. He was the chief financial officer for an upscale Century City firm. Ray was an entrepreneur who owned a variety of successful businesses. Greg was Ray's boyfriend of the moment, and didn't appear to have any job other than placating Ray, which appeared to be a full-time job. Ray wanted to play baccarat, so we went into the high roller area, the one cordoned off with velvet ropes. We were ushered through by burly yet impeccably groomed guards as if they had been waiting for us.

Ray lost five hundred dollars on his first bet. As I saw him toss another chip down, my mind reeled with the thought that his chip could pay my rent. To my relief, Bill was much more frugal with his money, and we watched Ray lose, and lose, and lose. In fact, Ray and Greg became so absorbed in their game that we were able to casually fade into the background.

Bill asked if I was hungry and I nodded, so we took the moving sidewalk out of Caesars to the street, then strolled over to the Flamingo. The wondrous thing about Vegas is that if you get tired of ancient Rome, just nearby are Paris, Venice, Egypt, Manhattan, and so on. The Flamingo was the brainchild of Bugsy Siegel, who, it is said, buried a few enemies in the hotel flower garden. We had a late supper at the Peking Market, a bustling restaurant replete with an enormous aquarium, lanterns, roasted ducks hanging in the window, and mandolin music echoing off the teak walls. In the excitement of the evening, the ill effects of my cheap dinner had worn off, and having been fueled only by vodka for the last three hours, I was starving. But a bowl of egg
drop soup, followed by a platter of moo goo gai pan and combinations of beef, broccoli, and Szechwan shrimp restored me.

We left the Flamingo and went to the MGM Grand. This was my kind of hotel: I could spend hours looking at the photos of the stars. I kept an eye on my camp-o-meter; no sense scaring Bill off by reciting movie lines for the balance of our evening. After a stroll through, we skipped out and explored the Imperial Palace. The Palace was a little down market after the pizzazz of Caesars, the MGM Grand, and the Flamingo, but we did have some clever drinks served in little ceramic skulls. We talked the whole time, about our jobs, our families, and our dreams as if we'd known each other for years and not just an hour. I'd never met someone I connected with so quickly and so well.

 

By three A.M., after such a glorious evening, there was no way I was going back to my closet-sized cigar box with its twin bed. Bill was staying downtown too, but at the Golden Nugget, with its clean-smelling rooms and decidedly more upscale atmosphere. I walked him to his room and as he opened the door, he shyly looked at me. The room was large and well air-conditioned. There was no mirror on the ceiling, and the bed was square. But it was California king-sized. We tossed our tuxedos and snuggled under the covers, but not before making sure the heavy drapes blocked out the approaching sunrise. I was glad I'd taken a bet on love.
Roll credits.

Martin Delacroix

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cody Barton tried killing himself, but he failed.

Then Cody came to live with us.

His dad dropped him off on our driveway. No hugs good-bye. Dr. Barton only waved from behind the wheel of his Audi before he drove away. This was days after Christmas. The afternoon was overcast and a damp breeze fluttered Cody's shoulder-length hair while he strode up our walkway.

I met Cody at the doorstep. The rope mark on his neck looked like a violet snake; it passed beneath his Adam's apple. Dark smudges appeared beneath Cody's eyes and a few zits dotted his cheeks. He carried a suitcase the size of a portable television in one hand, his skateboard in the other. A backpack hung from his shoulders.

“Are you all right?” was all I could think to say.

Cody wouldn't hold my gaze. He stared at his feet and shrugged.