Buddies (33 page)

“A wise old queen named him that in his first year in New York. He said Carlo needed a glamorous name because he was glamorous. Just one name, like all the greats—Charlemagne, Napoleon, Lilo. Something simple. Precise. Charismatic.”

“Like your lad himself,” said Dave, stroking Carlo’s hair. “What
is
his name?”

“Ripley Smith.”

Dave smiled. “Couldn’t he have been Rip? Wouldn’t that be a glamorous name? He looks like a Rip.”

I sliced the lemon. Make it a hunk of a slice, for a double. Lot of work tonight, yes? “Be very careful with him,” I said, grinding the pepper. “He looks tough, but he ain’t.”

I lit a candle. As I turned, drink in the right hand and candle in the left, Carlo wheezed and squirmed and hugged Dave in a hunger of death.

“He’s exhausted,” Dave told me. “He kept falling asleep as we talked.”

“He probably traveled directly from Aberdeen, South Dakota to here. He’s very impulsive.”

“Why the candle?”

“I’ve a yen to write by candlelight.”

“What are you writing?”

“Oh … a story about … you want anything before I go?”

“I want to hold this man in my arms for the rest of my life.”

I nodded. “Romantic, nice. But wait till you get him into bed.”

“Is he good?”

“We don’t say good. We say hot. And he’s not hot—he’s sacramental.”

I looked in on Dennis Savage and Little Kiwi. The latter, as usual, had thrashed himself into a position half on and off the bed. I righted him, and his eyes shot open. He breathed out, “Come back with Anne.” Then he was still.

The house was now dark and abed, and I pulled my window open a bit to inhale the enchanted air and take in the slap of the water. Something had happened after all; yes. I thought thanks were in order: but whom to thank? I’ve been atheist as long as I’ve been gay—but I thought that if there was/were/might be a God, it could not be that paranoid Old Testament sheik with the plagues and the tantrums. I looked farther back, to the all-mother, probably less cruel and more forgiving than her male successor. As Carlo says, when you take a problem to your father, he switches you; your mother gives you Cream of Wheat.

So I thought, Hello, let’s have some proof. If You exist, show us a lightning flash. You got five.

Nothing.

Maybe that was the wrong test. So I thought, Hello, if You exist, turn on the stereo. You got five.

Nothing.

So I thought, Okay, You don’t exist; and the wind swept into my room and blew the fucking candle out.

ALSO BY ETHAN MORDDEN

Nonfiction

Better Foot Forward: The Story of America’s Musical Theatre

That Jazz!: An Idiosyncratic Social History of the American Twenties

Opera in the Twentieth Century: Sacred, Profane, Godot

A Guide to Orchestral Music

The Splendid Art of Opera

The American Theatre

The Hollywood Musical

Movie Star: A Look at the Women Who Made Hollywood

Broadway Babies: The People Who Made the American Musical

Smarts: The Cultural I.Q. Test

Demented: the World of the Opera Diva

Pooh’s Workout Book

Opera Anecdotes

Fiction

I’ve a Feeling We’re Not in Kansas Anymore

One Last Waltz

Buddies

Some of these stories appeared in somewhat different form in
Christopher Street
magazine.

BUDDIES
. Copyright © 1982, 1983, 1984, 1985, and 1986 by Ethan Mordden. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].

eISBN 9781250086419

First eBook edition: April 2015