Some Men Are Lookers: A Continuation of the "Buddies" Cycle (31 page)

“Do you want to hear or not?”

He smiled. “Think of them downstairs. Three little boys of various sizes. One twenty, one thirty, one . . . how old is our Carlo?”

“Forty-something?”

“The two younger ones whipping up those sandwiches like Chef Boyardee preparing a soufflé for crowned heads, then the three of them eating and laughing and holding each other like teddy bears larking in the store after the toy man goes home. Why don’t I feel like that? Why didn’t I ever feel like that in my life?”

“You’ve waited thirty years to tell me this?”

“I didn’t know about it thirty years ago. Let’s go on with your story. You were eating a Hershey bar at the corner of—”

“Why is it every time I turn around you’re having another depression? I
knew
something was up with you!”

“I can’t help what I feel, can I? Just go on with your saga of beauty and truth in D’Agostino’s.”

“Okay. I couldn’t decide, right? So I got animal crackers
and
doughnuts. And on the way out I added in this and that. When I was unloading it at the checkout, I noticed that it was all desserts and knicknacks. Potato chips, pretzel logs, rice pudding, Pop-Tarts. Because I already had all the real food at home. But it looked kind of silly, and the man ahead of me was looking over this haul and grinning, and he said, ‘Well, I guess we’re all set for the orphans’ picnic.’ ”

“Is this the good part? Because by this time it’s almost next Sunday.”

“I’m about to describe him.”

“I hope so, because meanwhile I could have performed a matinee of
Show Boat.”

“He was the handsomest man I’d ever seen. He must have come from work, because he had an attaché. He was six feet two of class and kindness and reason, and I fell hopelessly in love with him at sight. Now, you must remember, this was years ago, and I was young and fit. Quand’ero paggio. You may not believe it, but I was once very, very young. I was a sliver and a smile.”

“This must have been sometime around the Lisbon earthquake.”

“I took to haunting D’Agostino’s at that hour, hoping to bump into him again. And I did. We performed a little chat here, a little joke there, and finally a walk-out-of-the-store together. What did I have to offer, you ask? What did I have on him? Just that I was twenty-three and he was . . . I don’t know. A bit older. I started walking around the neighborhood a lot on weekends. You know, to happen upon him on a free afternoon? Finally I did, one spring Saturday. No crowds, no bad New York; even the streets were clean. Jesus, what a day that was! He was so stalwart and I was . . . I. But I started picking up on certain things he said. Even the way he moved. We were walking to Yorkville and back, and—”

“You never do it right. The Village would have been more apropos.”

“No, that’s just it. He wasn’t Village. He wasn’t
gay
. We had dinner, and by the end of it I knew for certain. No closet. No bi.
Somehow he just felt at ease with gays. He dated women, he socialized with any man he liked, and he doted on numerous godchildren born to his old college pals. Everyone adored him because he was so nice. No, admirable. Strong . . . and . . .”

“Profession.”

“The law.”

“Address.”

“That high-rise across from the Catholic school on First Avenue.

“Dress.”

“Labels, but not noticeably so. A lot of gray crew-neck sweaters. Very upscale in shoes, but any old khaki shorts in summer.”

“Music.”

“Classical standards. Mahler’s Fourth, but never Mahler’s Sixth.”

“Movies.”

“Not so much. He never saw
Bonnie and Clyde
, but he knew what
Citizen Kane
was.”

He pondered. “Princeton?”

“Amherst. You were close.”

More bronchitis, then: “How come you never mentioned this to me before?”

“First, it was too exciting to share and, then, it was too humiliating. He was so wonderful in his sensitive, husky way that you kept dreading the moment when you would let him down. It was a heavy wager in self-esteem.”

“Wait now. How straight was he?”

“So straight that he would say things like ‘I wish I could be gay sometimes, because I’ve felt so close to my men friends that I want to hug them and—’ ”

He had put a hand over my mouth.
“That
is the most closeted—”

“You had to be there,” I got out. “He was on the level. He
was
. A flawlessly honest and secure man.”

“Not married, I’ll guess. Right?”

“Divorced.”

“What a shock.”

“You think every divorced man is a repressed gay? Oh, there’s always that fantasy. But if it had been an act, he’d have given himself away. You know: ‘Where do you . . . people . . . go?’ Endless jive about masturbation. Pseudo-idle comments about men he finds attractive. He did none of it. Bill was pure. So. Did I drift away? No—and you’ll like this part: I misbehaved at a party.”

He would
love
this part. He beamed like a gay Saint George at the outing of the dragon.

I said, “You remember that little era when I was very political and always getting into fights? Fights about anything?”

He nodded. “You were throwing drinks in so many people’s faces, we had to hire a man to follow you around bearing glasses and a decanter of vodka. Some nights I’d see crowds coming down Third Avenue with cocktail onions and ice all over them and I’d say, ‘Bud’s been to a party again.’ That’s what I’d say.”

“I felt
terrible
about it. Bill was so generous it was catching. You wanted him to admire your style as you admired his. Well, he gave this wingding where all his friends of different kinds would meet and love each other just as he loved them. The babies were cute, and the parents were okay, and the women were smart and fast. But the gays were . . . I don’t know how he did it, but except for me, they were all dreary, vicious, left-out queens.”

“Except for you.”

“They called you Denise at the Valley Forge Jamboree. I was going to take it to my grave, but provocation this fierce demands absolute honesty.”

He smiled, the crocodile. “Story, please. I’ll even up with you later.”

“Story’s over.”

“Come, come. You’ll feel better after you unburden yourself.”

“Cosgrove’s right. You’re Mr. Fee Fo Fum.”

“He calls me
that
?”

Another coughing fit.

“Good,” I said.

“Tell.”

“Full party, and I arrive, dressed to the nth. I am in form, and my style is ready. Everyone at the party will call the next day: ‘Who was that marvelous boy who played the piano and knew theatre and opera and, oh, just charmed our tails off?’ Okay, so he won’t need me physically. He’ll need me for who I am, which is even better.”

“That isn’t better.”

“Trouble begins when I am introduced to these two queens who start in on Maria Callas.”

“No wonder you got into fights. That’s such a personal matter. Anyone would destroy himself socially for Maria Callas.”

“It wasn’t the subject. It was the manner. They were so supercilious yet so ignorant. Why do these creatures always feel free to expound on subjects of which they know
nothing
? It was like ‘Who does she think she is?’ in this queen gabble. ‘Born in Brooklyn and suddenly she’s singing
Le Trovitata’
!”

“Surely you—”

“Look, she wasn’t born in Brooklyn—and so what if she
had
been? Jesus, these stupid, pushy freaks. Are these what Bill had in mind when he wished he were gay? Take
them
as far as they need to go? They move through life knowing nothing and claiming everything. . . . So why did I stay on talking to them, going into my slow burn? Why don’t I know when to leave?”

“You threw a drink? Two drinks?”

“One of those jerks decided to emphasize a remark by blowing cigarette smoke in my face, so I grabbed his hand and stubbed out the butt on his right cheek.”

He shook his head with a crooked smile. “If only they’d had you in Italy when the Visigoths arrived. Rome would never have fallen. We’d be speaking Latin.” He sang, “Dixis potetus et dixi potatus.”

“I’ve reformed now, as we both know.”

“Ipse.”

“Wasn’t there something on your mind?” I asked. “Something you wanted to say?”

“First tell me how Bill Upton handled your faux pas.”

“There was quite a to-do. Both the queens were shouting and people were trying to help the cigarette guy. Some vigilante cried out, ‘Look at him!’ to all and sundry, about me. ‘He shows no remorse whatsoever!’ It was total no-win, so I decided to split. Poor Bill looked so bewildered. He just couldn’t figure out what this
was
, you know? I mean, it’s something about Maria Callas, then somebody’s lying on his carpet having convulsions. Bill is the most perfect man in the East Fifties and such things simply don’t occur at his parties. Anyway, it wasn’t about Maria Callas. It was about I got fed up with the assholes of the world at the wrong place and time.”

“You went home. Now let’s guess. You wait a few days, then write a letter of apology.”

“I write several, and never send a one. No matter how I explained it, it seemed unforgivable. Bad
style
. The only crime in Bill Upton’s code of law. And it kept reminding me how much more work I had to put in on my own sense of stalwart. So I thought, The hell with it. Time will pass and we’ll bump into each other and then we can start over.”

“And you never did meet, did you?”

“Never.”

“Do you miss him?”

“I have done, at times. Terribly. Then I would think, What am I doing with a crush on a straight man? Free yourself! Move on out of there!”

“I quit my job today,” he said.

Big pause.

“In the middle of the school year? Aren’t you—”

“I told them I was in ill health and could not foresee a secure recovery, and they were happy to let me out of my contract. They think it’s AIDS, of course. Let them. They fear the disruption of the PTA and whatever, and I’m afraid that one more day in a classroom and I’ll bloody murder those fucking assheads. Ye gods,
I’ve spent my
life
in a classroom. And I know when to leave.”

“Well, well.”

“Yeah.”

“What,” I asked, “are you going to do for cake?”

He shrugged. “I’ve got savings. And the money from my mother’s will. Now I’m going to take it easy. And who knows? Maybe . . . royalties?”

He was looking at me, to see what I thought of that, but I stayed pretty blank; and just in time, the rest of us banged in, cheering and shouting.

“Carlo got us an audition!” cried Virgil.

“Our name in lights!” Cosgrove uttered.

“Gave a call down to Cash Westman at the Nine O’Clock Song on Spring Street,” Carlo explained. “He still likes me. Says, ‘Any act you’re managing has got to be prime.’ ”

“Well, we are,” said Virgil.

Dennis Savage started coughing again.

“Guess who still has bronchus,” said Cosgrove.

Dennis Savage looked at him for some time. “What did I tell you this condition is properly called?”

“Fee Fo Fum Disease,” said Cosgrove, getting behind Carlo.

Dennis Savage turned to me. “You know, bronchitis can lead to pneumonia. It isn’t a joking matter.”

Cosgrove chanted,
“Bron
chus,
bron
chus, they
say
that you have
bron
chus!”

Without a word Dennis Savage went into the bedroom and slammed the door.

“He’s pretty sore,” said Carlo.

“He quit his job today.”

“He quit his teaching?” said Carlo, baffled. “Why?”

“He got bored and gave it up. He knows when to leave.”

“We know when to enter,” Virgil put in, collecting his tape equipment. “Because the Ice Boys have the look and sound of the nineties.” He seemed efficient, even brusque, as he got his stuff together, sure of where he’s headed.

“The Ice Boys,” Cosgrove gloated. “You can run, you can hide—”

“We have to rehearse,” Virgil nearly barked. “Carlo, you should work the tapes, and Cosgrove, you’re not turning fast enough on the twirls in ‘Roses of Picardy.’ ”

“I will, though.”

Virgil surveys his crew. “Men, in two days we’re going to face the business end of the playbill. It’s every performer’s nightmare. Yes: the audition. But I know we can pull together and win the cup.” He focused on Cosgrove. “Think of it as a performance, as our debut.”

“Everything’s coming up Cosgrove,” Cosgrove hopefully offered. “Okay, Virgil?”

“We’re the Ice Boys, and we’re going to move like today. We’re going to show them the steps of the age. The city walk, Cosgrove.”

“By ourselves?” Cosgrove fearfully asked, suddenly aware of the strain, the challenge, between the ego and the audience.

“Carlo will be there,” Virgil replied. He’s military, then he’s airy, then he’s reassuring. What does this mean, and who does he think he is becoming?