Monkey Suits (21 page)

“Madame, it is done. Was there anything about the fall event that displeased you? ”

“Heavens, no. The same folks. That florist from Long Island who did Ida’s party last month. Get him.”

“Very well. I’ll have some plans made and call your assistant to get things rolling. Now may I recommend ze wine?”

“For the party?” Trish asked.

“For lunch, Madame.”

19
Armed with staple guns, fourteen florists swiftly wrapped tent poles
with yards of green vinery trucked in from New Hampshire. The tent, still dark while the miles of tiny white lights were being adjusted, glowed with the last burst of February dusk. Set up for a Metropolitan Opera benefit, the interior of the tent was a fury of last-minute settings, re-settings and adjustments. While dozens of buildings could have been rented, and perhaps even a lobby at Lincoln Center itself used, in the middle of a chilling winter, the party was to be held in Central Park.

The numerous inconveniences of setting up a four-hundred seat dinner in a park included not only renting extension cords to plug into Tavern on the Green’s power source, and supplying heat from a rumbling generator, but also constructing a level floor to walk on.

Two days before the affair, the lighting and production company also hired a dozen carpenters to set up foot-high platforms on a three thousand-foot square space. The intricate leveling of applying shims to accommodate the uneven rise and fall of the ground was completed only minutes before the wheeled ladder lifts were rolled in to hang the lights and floral arrangements. Despite their best efforts, a few bumps remained, but were smoothed out by the unrolling of thirty-five hundred square feet of bright green artificial turf.

Neil Pynchon yelled out for waiters to move tables while he rubbed his hands together. The temperature outside barely approached thirty degrees. Inside, the crew of workers fumbled about with the series of heat ducts attached to a generator. They were still arguing over the most aesthetically pleasing position for the ducts. In the meantime, what little heat did escape into the tent smelled like bus exhaust. Neil yelled more instructions as the waiters grumbled about the cold and the stench. Marcos dutifully obeyed, all the while whistling the theme from the movie
Brazil
.

The curled network of wire and tiny bulbs did finally achieve its brilliance, wrapped in over two thousand yards of white Christmas lights. The tables glowed, creamy clusters of silver, glass and china. Sweet-scented rose bouquets mixed with the gaseous odor of motor-generated heat.

The glamorous array of guests finally showed up in a fluffy array of furs, which were dutifully checked by a three-woman crew and a security guard at the tent’s entrance.

Neil stiffly paced toward Marcos, who checked his table for any missing place settings.

“Mr. Tierra?”

“Yes, dear?” Marcos turned.

“You’ll need to get an extra chair for your table.”

“But I already have ten place settings,” he insisted.

“I know that.” Neil rolled his eyes. “You need an extra chair for the guest of honor, Stefano di Quercio.”

“Di Quercio the opera tenor?”

“Yes, he’s singing here after dinner.”

“But he’s not eating?”

“He is eating. He also has a special dinner that you’ll get when we serve the entreé.”

“But why the extra chair?”

Neil cleared his throat, then nervously looked to both sides. “He’s very ... large.”

“Everybody knows that!”

“A little decorum,” he said, gritting his teeth. “He needs an extra chair. Just put two together and don’t say
anything
. Understood?”

Marcos held back a broad smile. “Understood, dear.”

“Don’t call me dear.”

“Of course, stud muffin.”

Neil walked off in a huff.

Marcos turned to a nearby co-worker, “At least I didn't call him Pines Orgy Pushy Bottom.”

In the crowded kitchen area, while they waited for the chefs to refill their trays, Marcos snuck up behind Ed and Ritchie. He gave Ed an affectionate butt pinch. He passed on Ritchie, who although gay-tolerant, did not care to have his butt pinched by another man. Marcos had been warned.

“So, what are you boys up to?”

“Not much, babe. You?”

“Can’t complain. There isn’t enough time!” He forced a laugh. “How’s that straight thing of yours hangin’, Messieur Ricard?” Marcos cooed.

“Mighty low, Mistah Tierra.”

“That’s what I hear,” he quipped. Craig the chef finished garnishing Ritchie’s tray and glared at them.

“Let’s move it, guys,” Neil Pynchon called out from further down the tent. He was once again captain, and once again doing a lot of superfluous supervising. He moved off to another area.

Marcos whispered to Ed, “I wish that bitch would go on a diet, you know where they wire your mouth shut?”

Craig waved Ritchie off. “C’mon, outta my kitchen.”

Marcos snapped. “I hate to shatter your illusions, but this isn’t a kitchen, potato face. It’s a cramped piece of a tent in a frozen park.”

“You shut up or you don’t get fed,” Craig warned without a trace of humor.

“Oh, I never eat this crap. This is for bourgie trash and old money mouths.” Marcos glared at Craig, whose face shone bright red under his tall paper hat. “So, sweetness, how goes it?” He turned back to Ed while another cook arranged his tray.

“Okay,” Ed answered. “Been busy.”

“With who? Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t kiss and tell, do you?”

“No.”

“And you’re married. That’s so sweet. You two are such an ... interesting couple.”

“Cut it out.”

“Alright. Are you working?” Marcos took out a small stick of lip balm and quickly did his lips like a showgirl about to make an entrance.

“Yup, been doing massages, classes. Hi Carissa,” Ed smiled at the diminutive woman who lined up behind Marcos. They kissed hello.

“Ah, yes. You still doin’ that circle jerk?”

“Healing circle,” Ed corrected.

“Oh, excuse me, yes. How’s that going?”

“Good. You oughtta come sometime.”

Marcos dropped his jaw in surprise, then whispered, “I am not sick.”

“Well, you don’t have to be. It’s for friends and the worried well, too.” Ed busied himself with arranging his garnish on the silver tray, struggling to remain polite.

“Well, I don’t have friends dying. All my friends are under thirty.” Marcos smacked his freshly glossed lips.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ed asked, amazed at his remark. He gave a look over to Carissa.

“Well, you know, all those old Seventies queens runnin’ around gettin’ pissed on in leather bars. That’s a whole ’nother generation. That ain’t my crowd.”

“It’s not just one age group,” Ed stated. “You should be a little more concerned.”

Carissa chimed in behind him. “The number of AIDS cases among adolescents has doubled in the last six months. That’s not a bunch of old Seventies queens, and neither are the women and IV drug users who–”

“Alright Florence Nightingale. Thank you,” Marcos cut her off. “You wanna go healing old queens, you do it. I’m sick of people bein’ sick of AIDS.”

“You think you’re immune?” Carissa asked. “Are you that sure?”

“Honey, I heard all about it when I was livin’ in Philly. I don’t do the nasty. I take care of myself. I may party, but it’s all for show. I talk nasty, but I am not dumb.”

Ed sighed. “It must be nice to be so sure of yourself.”

“Well, I’m sure not gonna let some old queen get me up the butt.”

“That’s enough of that,” Craig snapped from across the table. “Get out there and work.”

Marcos picked up his tray, followed by Ed, who wished he could have a moment to compose himself before serving.

“Boy, what a case,” Carissa sighed, walking out behind him.

“Information is all he needs,” Ed told her.

“And a solid bead-reading. How are you?”

“Still asymptomatic.”

“Still don’t wanna come to a meeting?”

Ed fidgeted with his serving spoons. “I don’t think that kind of energy is right for me now.”

“I understand. But listen, I’ve got a copy of
Treatment and Data Newsletter
in my backpack. You might want to think about getting on a new drug trial.”

“Thanks. Florence.”

Their trays laden with neatly arranged servings of baby lamb and wild rice, they headed out to serve dinner.

During his break, Ed slipped momentarily out into a darkened back area behind the kitchen tent with Lee to take the break he deserved but wasn’t granted.

Annually wrapped in miles of white Christmas lights, the courtyard trees of Tavern on the Green glowed behind them. He chatted blithely with Billy Heath and Lee, who conspiratorially shared a cigarette near a pile of freshly bagged leftovers.

“This is so crazy,” said Lee.

“I know,” Billy sighed, rubbing his shoulders. “We could be in a warm building across town, but no, they’ve got to be Fabulous.”

“Within reason,” Ed said, fending off Billy’s offer of a cigarette.

“Definitely,” Billy added. “After all, they’re all going to be together at the next party somewhere else, and it would just be too, too bo-o-oring to have a party in the same old museums or theater lobbies. Of course, this is all Ida Pomerantz’s doing. She’ll do anything to outdo her dear friend Trish Fuller, just to claw her way up to the top of the social circuit.”

“Social circus,” Lee said.

“You really like to follow their lives, don’t you?” Ed asked.

“Not follow,” Billy corrected. “I observe. I don’t worship them. Man becomes the food of the divinity he worships.”

“Who said that?” Lee asked.

“I did,” Billy quipped.

They chuckled as their smoke blended with the fog of their breaths in the chilly night air. Between passing the cigarette, Lee dropped it, having already scarfed a full glass of Chateau Bumbalo ’87. He bent down to the ground to retrieve it, but immediately jumped back.

“Oh my God!”

“What?” Ed and Billy cried.

“Look, look, look, oh my God, It’s so sick!” Lee pointed toward the exposed rim of the foot-high platforms. Ed and Billy cautiously leaned down and peered under the wooden planks.

At first barely perceptible, the shifting movement beneath the party’s stage seemed like tumbling leaves. But they weren’t leaves.

Separated only by the just-built floor, under the very feet of the chatting and drinking revelers, crawled a small herd of rats; dozens of them. Thick-bodied stumps with tails waddled about, sniffing at the bits of food strewn about the lawn, between the wooden posts and near the garbage bags. The tiny dots of their eyes glistened in the dim light.