On Archimedes Street (40 page)

“No really, what’s your name?” Dutch made a little grimace and waved his hand in front of his face as if brushing away an invisible gnat, a gesture he’d picked up unconsciously after many years of living with Achille.

“What are you doing, Dutch? This is getting old.”

“No, really, what’s your name?”

“John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt. Is that your name too, you douchebag?”

“No, really, what’s your name?”

Flip shot him a narrow-eyed look. “Flip,” he said curtly.

“Hiya, Flip.” And he offered the hand again.

Flip took it and tried to crush it until it hurt.
Hiya? What happened to “Well met in Padua”?

“What’s that short for? Philip?” Dutch surreptitiously rubbed his crushed hand.

“Filiberto.” Flip’s eyes flashed in challenge.

“Filiberto. Wow. What a cool name. My real name is Pieter—everybody and his uncle is named Peter, even though mine has an extra 
i
in there, like the Dutch spelling. My mom’s family is Dutch, you see.”

“How very fascinating. What are you up to, you bastard? You can’t just disappear like that without a word. And what are you acting so weird for?”

Dutch made the gnat-chasing gesture. “You know, the stunting? It was gold. We were meant to know each other. We’ve got to pursue this. Think what we could do with some practice! We could enter the nationals.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes,” said Dutch enthusiastically. “Why don’t you come over to my house? We can hang and relax, maybe make some plans for where we can take this stunting gig. At least exchange numbers and schedules.”

“I give up. Idiot.”

“Dutch! Flip! Guess what!” Mimi approached hurriedly.

Flip was relieved. Dutch couldn’t keep up this little charade in front of someone they both knew.

“Googs’s aunts! They’ve agreed to bankroll my fitness center! I’m on my way to pick up Googs and have a look at this place on Tchoupitoulas Street that we might rent. The location is perfect, though I think the joint is a little run-down. We’ll have to gut it, but if they give us a long-term lease….”

“Hi, Mimi. That’s great. Have you met Flip?”

Mimi waved him off. “Idiot. I don’t have time for your crap. I’m off! Wish me luck!”

“Good luck, Mimi,” Flip called after her.

“Anyway, where were we? Oh, yeah. Let’s take our bikes over to my house. It’s not too far. And we can discuss next steps on our way to conquering the stunting world. I’m sure we’re a good fit. This will be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Dutch continued in the same vein at the Garden District house. Flip’s irritation slowly gave way to bewilderment as he introduced him to Say-Say and Achille. “Say-Say, Pops. Meet Flip, my new friend. He’s into stunting too.” Say-Say took it in stride, and Achille, sitting in a club chair, merely grunted behind the pages of the
Times-Picayune
.

Achille put down the paper. “So. Do you remain fixed in your determination to turn Harvard down?”

“Pops, please. Do we have to have this discussion again?”

“Flip, dear, would you like a slice of coconut cake? Let’s give them a few minutes alone. Come with me to the kitchen.”

“Yes, please.” He liked coconut cake, but he was eager to have a word in private with Say-Say.

Once in the kitchen, he questioned Say-Say as she sliced the cake. “What’s going on with Dutch? He’s acting so strange. Pretending we’ve just met.”

“Oh, he’s just off on one of his tears. You’ll get used to them. God knows I have. He was always a little notional.”

“Notional?”

“Yes. He gets these notions. It’s no good to try to talk sense to him when he’s got a bee in his bonnet. But at heart he’s a sweet, good boy.”

Flip chewed thoughtfully. “This is delicious, by the way.”

“Why, thank you, sug. The secret is to put coconut milk in the batter.” She didn’t tell him about simmering cardamom pods in the milk. She was taking that secret to her grave.

Dutch and Flip wound up sitting in the chintz-covered, white wrought-iron chairs in the sunroom. Like all the furniture in the Abbott household, they were capacious, designed for six-footers. Dutch stretched and brushed Flip’s foot with his own, then quickly retracted it.

“Sorry. So. We can’t waste this stunting chemistry that we’ve got. We were hitting on all cylinders. Imagine what we could do with a little practice.”

Flip stared blankly.

“Where do you live?”

“Gretna.”

“Neat. I love the West Bank.”

“I bet you do.” The sarcasm dripped from his words.

“Wanna meet up tomorrow, say at ten, here?”

It was then Flip realized he would be going home alone to an empty Gretna shotgun. The prospect left him unutterably depressed. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll be late for Organic Chem.”

“You take Org Chem too? I’ve never noticed you in class.”

“Yes, imagine. What a coincidence.”

After class, Dutch said, “’Til tomorrow,” and Flip locked up his bike and book bag in the secure cage. He wouldn’t be studying tonight. He hopped on the Saint Charles streetcar and made his way to the Quarter. He needed advice, and there was only one person who knew about his relationship with Dutch. He needed a well-padded and perfumed shoulder to cry on.

T
HIS
TIME
,
Flip entered La Fruit’s with a lot more confidence than he’d had that first time. He ignored the leers and hungry looks and headed for the nearest bartender.

“Where’s Diminutiva?”

The barkeep had his arms in to the elbows in the sudsy glassware sink. He motioned with his chin. “Holding court in the back booth.”

Flip made his way there, but at first he couldn’t make out where Diminutiva was. Then he recognized him. “Diminutiva! What happened to
you
?”

“Gastric bypass, honetta.” He got up and twirled. “How do I look?”

Like one of those wrinkled Chinese dogs with flaps of skin wobbling all over.
“You look great.”

“We were just discussing my new drag name, now that ‘Diminutiva’ is no longer suitably ironic. Come join us.”

“Diminutiva, I need your advice. Something’s happened.”

“Is it serious?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come with me. Ex-squeeze me, ladies. I need quality time alone with this hot young
thang
.” He then commandeered another booth, sending its occupants packing. “Shoo! I claim seniority. Roy! Another orange juice! And—what are you having, huntie?—and a draft! Now tell mama all about it.”

Diminutiva took small sips of his juice as Flip poured out his tale of woe—“stomach holds just a tablespoon now”—and nodded encouragement.

“Well, that’s it. Isn’t it strange? What do you think?”

“It’s as plain as the nose on your face. He wants to begin it all over from the start. He regrets how it played out the first time around. So he’s trying to wipe it all out and start with a fresh slate.”

“But he can’t do that! And he doesn’t even seem like himself.”

“Give it time. A leopard can’t change his spots. He’ll be back to his obnoxious self soon enough.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. It was the kiss, you know.”

“It wasn’t that big a deal. Just a pansy-ass, barely there smooch.”

“It may have left you underwhelmed, but, believe me, it rocked his world. It means he’s in love, you know. He loves you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He wants the thrill of the first approach, the first tentative hints, the tenterhooks of wondering whether you’ll kiss him back or punch him, the first real kiss, the first disrobing and discovery of the secret parts. I wonder how he’ll go about it—will he tell you straight out he’s interested? Or will he play cat-and-mouse, with exploratory footsie and subtle hints? You’ll have to let me know. But at any rate, for this to happen, he needs to wipe the slate clean and begin with a tabula rasa.”

Suddenly, Diminutiva grew nervously animated. “You’re a genius!” he cried. He stood and clapped his hands for silence. “Ladies! Ladies! This toothsome hunk of man-meat has come up with my new drag name. Farewell, Diminutiva! Rest in peace! Ladies, say hello to—drumroll—
Tabula Rasa
!”

T
ABULA
R
ASA
’
S
eagle eye spied Special Ed straight away as he made his way into La Fruit’s. Gym bunny.
Hmm.
Tabula Rasa decided to clock him.
Hot.
He might add him to his coterie.

Ed settled himself on a stool. He drew a few interested glances.
Not bad for a dislocated special ed teacher.
He ordered a drink and nursed it as he glanced around. He felt liberated. His mother had given him the standard you’ll-go-to-hell speech. That still stung a little. But he decided to forget about it now. He was free. He was single. He was
horny
. And then he saw him.

No one else saw him. He remembered the type from high school. It was the six-foot-two president of the science club, with a giant brain and shoulders and cock to match, all hidden behind a nerdy exterior. He had “pocket protector” written all over him. The glasses were thick and hipster, but Ed knew for a certainty they were only accidentally so.
He’s invisible to everyone but me!
The loose, bulky clothes hid the body. But Ed, a connoisseur, knew what lay beneath. He approached.

“Hey.”

Pocket Protector looked up in surprise. What did this buffed bunny want with
him
?

“I’m Ed. And you are…?”

“Robert. Please not Bob or Robbie. What do you do, Ed?”

“Special education.”

Pocket Protector lost interest immediately.

“How about you, Robert?”

“Graduate student. Physics,” he said. “Quantum mechanics.” He was ready to ditch this Gym Bunny, cute as he was. Zero in the head. And Bunny was probably just looking for attention, proving he could make a conquest. Maybe get a free drink.
Yeah, maybe I’m defending myself against rejection. Maybe I should give him a chance. Well… probably not.

“Quantum mechanics? Like, the dreams that stuff is made of?”

Robert stared in surprise. “Ha! Hahahaha. You begin to interest me, Ed.” He couldn’t believe he had a chance with Gym Bunny. And he seemed to have a brain in his head.

“I bet. What do you think of string theory, Robert?”

“I think it’s bunk.”
This is getting interesting.

“Oh, yeah? Maybe you’re right. Maybe not. You think I could pull your string?”

“Er… er… er….”

“You are so cute. I could lick you from head to toe, Mr. Science-Club-President-Pocket-Protector.”

“Er… er… er….”

“But listen, Mr. Tall and Lean, Mr. Pocket Protector guy. I’m a bottom. You think you can handle that? I’m a whole lot to handle.”

Robert lost his hesitancy. “No problem at all.” He couldn’t believe his luck.

And neither could Ed, as he looked at Pocket Protector. There was nothing more attractive than beauty that did not recognize itself.

“Tell me your philosophy of life.”

Robert, Pocket Protector, thought awhile. “Well, it’s this: ‘Never weld or solder anything when you’re wearing shorts.’”

A sense of humor. Always a good thing.

“What about yours?”

Ed, Gym Bunny, didn’t have to consider. He’d asked the question in the first place, so of course he had his own answer at the ready. “I guess it’s this: ‘When everything bad is coming at you, maybe you’re in the wrong lane and driving against the traffic.’”

Robert, the Pocket Protector, said in wonder, “I really get to fuck you, don’t I? You’re not just teasing me.”

“I surely hope so,” said Ed, the Gym Bunny. “But please keep the glasses on while you do it.”

Chapter 53

S
O
,
THEY
’
D
really returned to square one. Here he was, beating off in Dutch’s bed thinking of Dutch while Dutch was away. It had been four days without sex now, and he was used to getting off with clockwork regularity. He didn’t exactly have blue balls, but pretty close. He’d looked in the clothes hamper for something Dutch had worn, but Beatrice had come, and the only stuff in there was his. So—he’d make it quick and mechanical.

Across the river, Dutch was jacking it as well. But his session was anything but mechanical. He was going over the details of the seduction scene. He’d decided on “accidental” knee pressure and an intense look, followed by a shy, faltering, barely veiled hint. “Are you gonna punch me out?” figured in the script. He was writing it in his head, but it was hard to do, since he couldn’t predict with certainty what Flip’s part of the dialog would be. It ended with a kiss, that was for sure. Heavy necking for a week or so—the part he was really looking forward to—until they finally showed each other their bodies. When should that happen? Two weeks after the first kiss? Maybe a week and a half. Oral only for a while. They’d wait on tenterhooks for the results of their STD tests while they used rubbers. A dramaturgical necessity, if not strictly a medical one. He’d let Flip take the lead in deciding who got fucked first.

“I
ON
telebbision! Dey doin’ a segment on Gretna in ‘Aroun’ the Town’ on
An Early Mornin’ Cuppa N.O.
wit’ Terri Moss,” Elwood told Manny excitedly. “An’ dey wanna interview me ’cuz of the chantin’ instructional videos. I gotta call Special Ed and lett’im know!”

“Yes,” Lotte was telling Doodie airily. “I’m gonna be on the TV. On ‘Aroun’ the Town’ wit’ Terri Moss. On dat show—
An Early Mornin’ Cuppa N.O.
Dey featurin’ me as the Gretna cook-off legen’.”

The news got around Archimedes Street fast. Almost every New Orleans household breakfasted to
An Early Morning Cuppa N.O.
It was the background noise to the dripping of countless cafetières in countless air-conditioned kitchens across Southern Louisiana. Countless families, black and white, considered Terri one of the family, even though they had never met her. If they saw her on the street, they thought nothing of stopping and chatting, offering their opinions on the day’s show and suggestions for future ones. She projected a maternal quality, had wholesome good looks, and was nonthreateningly plump. Above all, she had the common touch. She could talk to anybody about anything.