The Legend of the Ditto Twins (59 page)

In the
following weeks, Flamm stalked The Ditto Twins to Sacramento, Portland, and
Seattle, and set up shop wherever they performed. All he could talk about (at
least on TV) was The I Word. Still, we refused any interviews to rebut him.

"It's
a battle you can't win," Clay kept saying.

We felt
like such fakes. On the one hand, we were totally out of the closet as gay men,
but there was that other closet in which we still were hiding. By our silence,
we were letting everyone think that our feelings for each other were a
brilliant publicity gimmick, nothing more. Staying out of sight, of course,
fueled the legend of The Ditto Twins. More than once, they were compared in
print to that guy who wrote
Catcher
in the Rye.
He wouldn't give
interviews either. One syndicated columnist even swore he had documented proof
that Ryan was the illegitimate son of Princess Di and Bryan had undergone
cosmetic surgery in Sweden to create the hoax. We howled over that. But we were
beginning to chafe under our own celebrity and buckle under our own hypocrisy.

One thing
I did notice as we moved from city to city was that the protestors' signs were
beginning to change. At each stop, there were fewer and fewer "God Hates
Fags!" posters and more and more proclaiming "God Hates Incest!"

We didn't
meet Flamm face to face till we got to Denver.

The night
The Ditto Twins opened there, the protestors were particularly ugly, and
afterward, we poured out all our frustrations to our driver. Shaggy haired and
stubble bearded, he wore a ratty old Act-Up sweatshirt and dirty jeans.
Everyone called him Mad—which apparently was short for Madison—but also
apropos. A radical gay activist, he offered to blow
Flamm’s
brains out for us, but we passed on the idea. We did not, however, pass on his
next suggestion.

"Dudes,
you really should confront that homophobic son-of-a-bitch. Nose to nose. Kick
some ass."

We
nodded. "It would be nice to look him right in the eye..."

“...and
tell him to go fuck himself."

"Why
don't you? I know where he's staying."

"You
do?" In unison.

"Hell,
yes. And I could get a reporter and a photographer to cover the event."

"A
photographer?" We perked up.

"That'd
make the papers, and..."

“...we
sure as hell could use some equal TV time."

"Do
it, Ryan! Do it, Bryan!" Mad urged. "Where's your
c
ojones?"

Clark
responded first. "Let us think about it. You know, talk it over with our
advisors."

Somehow,
we never got around to mentioning the idea during our nightly call to Clay and
Jay. And we were waiting when Mad came to pick us up the next morning. With him
were a reporter from
The Denver Post,
and a photographer, plus a TV crew of three.

Flamm was
staying at the venerable Brown Palace Hotel and, according to reliable sources,
usually breakfasted in its spacious dining room. As Mad returned from his
scouting expedition, we stood waiting in sport jackets and sunglasses.

"Far
corner to your right. Go!" he urged.

Holding
court with a small group of his followers at the premier table in the crowded
room, the Rev. Abel Flamm was not nearly as imposing in person as on
television.

We walked
right up to him.

"Excuse
me, Reverend, but..."

“...we
just wanted to thank you..."

“...for
everything you're doing these days."

Graciously,
he looked up from his oatmeal and held out a hand, not so much to shake ours
but to bestow his blessing.

"Why
thank you."

"And
thank you, sir." I took off my sunglasses. "You certainly have made
our tour..."

“...such
a success." Clark removed his sunglasses. "And our film, too."

"I'm
Ryan Ditto. And this is my brother..."

That's
about as far as we got before the TV lights went on, a flash started popping,
and
Flamm's
retinue bodily lifted him out of his seat
and hustled him from the room much in the same way the secret service protects
the President from potential assassins.

The TV
crew, the reporter, and the photographer trailed Flamm, shouting questions,
even as the maitre d' and two waiters unceremoniously escorted Clark and me
from the room, through the lobby, and out onto the sidewalk.

"
Bet
we make the six o'clock news tonight."

"
Bet
we do. Give me a cigarette."

Once our
compatriots returned, The Ditto Twins gave their first network interview there
on the sidewalk and that's how they became instant media darlings.

That
night, we called Clay and Jay. When we told them what we'd done, there was a
long silence before either spoke.

"Well,
that was pretty fuckin' stupid," said Clay finally. "You know, don't
you, that you've drawn blood by publicly humiliating that bigoted bastard. Now
he'll double his efforts to get you guys, any fuckin' way he can."

Jay put
it more colorfully: "Dear ones, he's gonna have your fuckin' balls on a
silver platter."

After
Denver, we had a two-week hiatus that Clay had coordinated with Lily so we
could come home for her wedding. It was a somewhat unconventional ceremony.
Everyone wore white except the bride, who came attired in bright Corvette red.
At the reception, we danced with both the bride and the groom. At one point, I
even took a spin around the floor with Tanisha. She'd lost weight.

"So?"
I asked. "How's our chart these days?"

"Beware
of organized religion," was all she said.

I nodded
and figured she'd read about us in the newspapers, too.

It was a comfortable
week, and we were in no hurry to go back on the road. Each day, we spent hours
channel surfing, searching for any news of Rev. Flamm, to no avail. He'd not
been seen publicly since his abrupt exit from The Brown Palace, and his silence
was ominous. Jay was convinced he'd gone underground to build bombs.

One
night, right in the middle of "Jeopardy," Clay got an anonymous phone
call from a frightened, youthful voice. The caller said only eight words:
"Rev. Flamm has been talking to the police." None of us could figure
out what that meant, or why a kid was calling, but it didn't bode well.

A week
later, the day before we were set to fly down to Dallas, the four of us were
sitting in the parlor debating whether or not to get an unlisted phone number.

"You
do realize we can cancel the rest of the fuckin' tour," Clay pointed out.

Clark and
I nodded.

"It's
tempting, but we think we should honor our obligations."

"Don't
be so goddamned noble," he groused. "Dead heroes don't get to fuck much,
you know. Think about that."

"We
just don't want anything to happen to you," added Jay. "You were
brilliant, I must say, but watch your step."

As if on
cue, the phone rang.

Clay hit
the TV mute as Jay picked up the phone. We could hear the voice on the other
end of the line, even though Jay was holding it close to his ear. It was Mom.

"You
son-of-a-bitch!" she began.

With a
flourish, Jay hit the speaker-phone button, so that we could all listen, and
crooned into the receiver, "Well, hi, Sissy. How may I direct your
call?"

"Let
me speak to Clay. Now."

"One
moment, please. I'll see if he's available." He offered his brother the
phone.

Clay was
so cool. "Hi, Sissy. What's up?"

"You
bastard, you have destroyed my life!"

"Oh?
How?"

"And
I expect you to do something. Now! Can't you hear that? Right in our front
yard! With signs! That Rev. Flamm!"

"What
are you talking about? He's at your place?"

"Dozens
of them! With signs! In our front yard!"

"Really?"
He never raised his voice.

"You've
ruined everything."

"How's
that?"

"We'll
never be able to go to church in this town again."

"Sissy,
you don't go to church."

"We'll
have to move. Sell the dairy. Now everyone knows."

"Why
did you call? What do you expect me to do?"

"Get
in your car, come fast as you can and talk to that horrible man. Explain to him
it's all your doing, not ours."

"Actually,
Sissy, I think you'd have better luck with him than I would. You know he
doesn't care for cocksuckers."

"I
don't like that word."

"Neither
does he. That's the whole point. Yes, you should go introduce yourself, pour
out your heart to him."

"I
most certainly will not."

"Explain
that you're kindred spirits, that you threw your sons out of your fuckin' house
and swore never to speak to them again, that you're a good Christian
woman."

"Are
you making fun of me?"

"Or
you
can call
the police. Get a restraining order."

"Stop
it, Clay! This is all your doing."

"Listen,
Sissy, I'd love to talk, but when you called, Jay and I were just getting ready
to fuck and..." He held up the phone and grinned. "She hung up on
me."

Jay
charged across the room and embraced Clay.
"Oh, God, Babe. Ditto, ditto,
ditto."

Clay held
him tight. "Yeah. Ditto, ditto, ditto."

Then Jay
did the damnedest thing. Sliding out of Clay's arms, he announced. "I
guess I'll go bake some brownies."

"Are
you out of your fuckin mind, Babe? Why?"

"To
serve the picketers when they get here tomorrow morning. And they will get
here, the minute they realize The Ditto Twins aren't at Sissy's place."

Jay was
right. Early the next morning, we were awakened by the familiar rants of The
God Hates Fags Gang. We hurried into the parlor to look out the window. On the
lawn Jay had set up a card table with a tray of brownies, a case of bottled
water, a small American flag, and a sign that read "Welcome!" Not one
of the protestors came near it.

"Why
don't you go out on the porch and wave to them?" he suggested.

"Why?"
In unison.

"So they
can see you. As long as they think The Ditto Twins are here, they'll stay, too,
and won't go to Dallas."

We did as
told, but not till the first TV crew showed up. When we waved, The Good
Reverend did not wave back, and The God Hates Fags Gang was so focused on
stomping up and down for God that they didn't notice when Clark and I later
slipped out the back way and down the alley behind the repo shed to catch a cab
to the airport. The Ditto Twins opened in Dallas the next night without a
protestor in sight. But the calm didn't last long. The following evening, the
picketers were back in place, right across from the club.