Some Men Are Lookers: A Continuation of the "Buddies" Cycle (18 page)

“I object,” Dennis Savage cried. “That little degenerate
loves
to be spanked! Everyone in this family knows it!”

“What about our Plaza Tours?” said Virgil. “We have to get ready for the new age that begins!”

Dennis Savage sighed, picking up plates and stuff. “Normally, I’d be scratching my eyes on the walls, but I’m so relieved now that I could take on anything. How much do you think Bruce Weber charges for dust jacket photos?”

“A little maniac,” Cosgrove was muttering. “I can fix
him
!”

“Who’s serving seconds?” Carlo inquired.

“I will,” said Dennis Savage, coming out again. “I will, in fact, with gladness, as soon as I catch my breath. All these delicious events going on. This hope. Because—that’s it, of course!—the whole secret of la dolce vita is to have something to look forward to.”

He was about to plop into a chair; but Cosgrove was ready.
Having snatched another whoopee cushion out of his
left
sock, he’d quickly inflated it and accomplished the placement just as Dennis Savage hit the armchair.

As the great rumor of humiliation rang through the party, Cosgrove triumphed, Virgil considered, Carlo was scarfing up the last of the dinner, and I said, “Life is a barnyard,” to view this latest turn of fate philosophically. “Life, anyhow,” I explained.

“Life is good sex,” said Carlo, munching.

“Life is revenge,” said Cosgrove. “And it’s coming soon.”

“Life is the Plaza Tours,” said Virgil. “Where you see how everything happened and where it could go.”

“Life,” said Dennis Savage, rising above the entire evening, “is getting published.”

The one who said that people are really good at heart? That was Anne Frank.

“History rings,” Virgil was announcing, “with the names of presidents, senators, and generals who marched through this gilded square.”

“Even cabaret artistes have given their all here,” Cosgrove added. “Some in mufti.”

“To this day,” Virgil went on, “the great and near-great mingle freely with the bohemian world in this no-man’s-land of power and talent.”

I had halted to take it in, and now I saw Miss Faye entering as unto a stage upon hearing her cue; throwing me a sardonic wink, she turned off the street into the plaza with a mighty flounce and passed brazenly before the tour group, many of whom dutifully elevated their cameras. A few passersby stopped to gawk and muse.

“Here comes one now,” Cosgrove loudly confided to his charges. “One of the salty habitués of the downtown set. Let us watch as this paragon of the demi-world goes to and fro in our exciting New York plazas.”

Miss Faye must be writing his material again, I thought, as Miss Faye paused, struck an attitude, and declaimed, “Oo, tourists! Where are you folks from? Do I smell . . . Ohio? Ashtabula, perhaps?”

The folks, mostly expressionless middle-agers and seniors, just stood there.

“Why, I do believe it’s Miss Faye,” said Cosgrove, in an aside to the group. “The legend of stage and scream. Why not greet her?”

Miss Faye flourished another pose, but none of the folks uttered so much as a Yo! Virgil was airing out his baseball cap, looking bored, and I trundled on home.

One had the feeling that the Plaza Boys were about to pack it in, and they presently did so, celebrating their freedom by buying fancy cameras and immediately reincorporating as the Photo Snoops, roaming the town in hunt for celebrities to shoot, the pictures to be sold for fabulous profits. Virgil prudently banked the rest of his share of the Plaza Tours income; Cosgrove blew his on CDs and Yoo-hoo.

So it looked like we were in for another of those same-old summers—with one novelty, Peter Keene, who was visiting to consult with us on gay stylistics, sex practices, and parish credenda. I for one have very little patience for people who wait till their thirties to come out. Like, what were they afraid of, that Nancy Reagan would cut their parties? But Dennis Savage of course played the enthusiastic adviser and Carlo enjoyed having someone new to stagger and thrill with the recounting of his exploits.

“Do you know Carlo says he’s probably had more sex with straight men than with gay men?” Peter asked me one evening over coffee in my apartment. “He’s sort of a natural force, I think. Like Magnetic North. He
uproots
men.”

On television, Alex Trebek asked, “What category?”

“Pee-wee Herman for four hundred,” Cosgrove replied.

“Political Pundits for one hundred,” said the TV contestant.

“Rats,” said Cosgrove. “They never like
my
categories.”

Cosgrove is a wild
Jeopardy!
buff. Every evening at seven o’clock he parks himself in front of a television and competes with the screen contenders, shouting out answers and berating himself when he misses. But he always misses. First of all, he doesn’t realize that players must choose from the categories presented on the show; second, he believes that the quickest answer, rather
than the correct one, wins the prize. It’s a scattershot, stream-of-consciousness
Jeopardy!
Yet Cosgrove is an addict.

Trebek then put forth his riddle, in that constipated
Jeopardy!
manner that poses the questions in the form of answers: “These essays by Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Jay illuminate the American Constitution.”

“Who was George Washington Bridge!” Cosgrove shouted, in a rush.

“What was
The Federalist,”
said the contestant.

“Right,” Trebek confirmed.

“Famous Candy Bars for three hundred,” said Cosgrove.

“Political Pundits for two hundred,” said the contestant.

“Shoot!”

“Visiting Soviet Russia in 1919,” said Trebek, “he said, I have been over into the future, and it works.’ ”

“Why were they three blind mice!” Cosgrove cried.

The TV contestant was not so quick; nor were his competitors. Finally one pushed the buzzer. “Who was . . . Lytton . . .” He shook his head.

“Who was Lincoln Steffens,” said Peter.

Cosgrove shot him a mildly accusing look, as Trebek confirmed Peter’s answer.

“Hey,” Cosgrove told Peter. “I do a single.”

Luckily, the show took a marketing break, and I muted the sound. “Why aren’t you upstairs playing
Jeopardy!
with Virgil?” I asked Cosgrove.

“He’s in a bad mood.”

“About what?”

He shrugged. “Lately he does that sometimes.”

“Why don’t you show Peter some of your latest Photo Snoops shots?”

Cosgrove considered this, eyeing Peter as if wondering whether to let him even that far into his life.

“Well, maybe,” Cosgrove finally conceded, hopping up to fetch his photo album, one of those classy sheer-plastic-over-adhesive-pages
numbers that Tiffany’s sells for a surprisingly small amount of money. Cosgrove is very proud of the album’s felt dust cover, in “Tiffany blue” and fastened with a drawstring, and he invariably makes a big show out of opening it.

I mention these details of fashion because I don’t want any of you thinking that gay boys do nothing but talk about the NFL and eat raw beef and piss in the street.

Anyway, Cosgrove presented Peter with the volume and sat with us on the couch to identify the uncaptioned photos.

“We took that one outside the Hard Rock Café,” he said. “That’s Sly Stallone and his gang.”

“It’s so dark,” said Peter.

“Well, it was night. And a whole bunch of Arab chieftains came in and made me nervous.”

“Where’s Sly?”

“He’s behind the towelheads. And this, now, is Elizabeth Taylor, who had a cold.”

“Which one is she?”

“Well, everybody was rushing and yelling, ‘Liz! Liz!,’ and she hid in a Kleenex. But now
this
is the prize, as you can see.”

Peter studied it. “ ‘The Wounded Stag’?” he guessed.

“It’s Michael Stipe, outside the Plaza Hotel.”

“What are those blurry things around him?”

“He was laughing and his head moved.
Oh!” (Jeopardy!
was back on.) “The Snows of Kilimanjaro, for one hundred!” Cosgrove called out, slipping off the couch, his interest snagged.

It was impossible to talk while Cosgrove played
Jeopardy!
Peter patiently waited it out, though he was not sorry to see Cosgrove march off to D’Agostino’s immediately after the show ended.

“Your . . . what do you call him again? Your roommate?”

“My live-in.”

“Well, and he’s got his fascination, yes, I see that. His . . . energy. He’s quite jolly pals with Dennis Savage’s . . . live-in?”

I nodded.

“Yes, but the term sounds so neutral!” he protested.

“It’s supposed to. It covers almost as many bizarre compromises and perfused disappointments as the words ‘husband’ and ‘wife’ do when heterosexuals use them.”

“Point taken. But it does seem odd that both you and Dennis Savage have . . .” He didn’t want to offend, so he was choosing his words with care. “. . . well, somewhat youthful live-ins, as opposed to . . .”

“Tired old queens like ourselves?”

“Not at all! How could you think—”

“Look around! Is everyone the same age? Shares everyone the same interests, ho? We’re all different, and each relationship is different, and
some
relationships might be
very
different—and suddenly you get one of those keen-to-learn younger man-smart, educational older man duos. Or the protégeur-protégé setup, where they’re both musicians, or one’s a choreographer and one’s a dancer. Or even . . . Bud has just enough money to support a mate, and Cosgrove’s homeless and vulnerable and is thus forced to undergo an exploitative degradation such that the Hogarthian brothel madams of Gin Lane would turn from it in—”

“For pity’s sake!” he cried, jumping to his feet. “Did I
say
that?”

“More coffee?”

“It just looks—”

“Weird.”

“ ‘Wonderful,’ I was heading for, actually. I can see that your live-in is psychologically embattled and feels . . . safe? . . . here.”

I nodded, taking our mugs to the kitchen for the second brew. “He can never figure out why people think he’s strange. But at this address no one cares, so he thrives. He’s supported and protected.”

“Yes, surely,” Peter agreed, coming after me. “But the usual gay coupling would unite two men of the same . . . No?”

“What’s usual about gay coupling in the first place?” I countered, grinding the beans to extra-fine while the water boiled. I use a half-and-half infusion of Medaglia d’Oro decaffeinated espresso and Martinson’s Regular, and everyone says I serve the best coffee
in town. “Each couple’s a mismatch, in fact,” I went on. “That’s the fun of it.”

“But Carlo always goes for men of his own ilk, it would seem.”

“Would it?” I asked, laying the filter paper in its holder over my Charles-and-Di mug. Our rituals.

“Well, such . . . such big, virile men doing their . . . that who’s-in-charge? tango . . .”

“Rip’s a totally out gay guy who likes to date homos so closeted they think they’re heterosexuals. Or real heterosexuals who turn to men because they can’t get enough from women. You can’t call that a union of equals, can you?”

“Well, but his whole vigor is this . . . this
wow
, the way he goes after what he wants. He says we all have it in us to pull down our star. That’s his term. Yes, we . . . yes,
snatch
that star close, with the gym and the clothes . . . the right hat, you might say . . .”

Peter
might, certainly. Seldom had a man so quickly accommodated himself to the rules of the place, with his “ ‘Tention, hut!” shoulders and eighty-five-dollar haircut.

“‘The right hat,’ ” I echoed, pouring the hot water through the filter paper. “Huh.”

There are four types of people who come newly into your life: the iffy people who quickly turn out to be no good (usually because they start haranguing you after you refuse to lend them your copy of
Mawrdew Czgowchwz);
the harmlessly unarresting people who will, with the slightest encouragement, drift off in due course; the agreeable people who will be denied your most intimate confidence but may be mentioned in your will; and essential people. Peter was making a strong showing somewhere between the third and fourth grades, and as we talked on about Carlo and pulling down your star and self-transformation, I began to wonder—lazily, with one ear on Peter’s elated rap—just how he was going to fit into our lives.