The Passionate Attention of an Interesting Man (12 page)

“And Jason had told me,” I said, at I hoped my most ingratiating, “how much easier it is to be gay in a small town.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it ‘easy,’” Phil replied. “I’d call it…‘select.’”

“Of course,” I agreed. “That’s just the word.”

“Mmm, yes. But don’t butter me up, sweetheart. I’m not a croissant.”

I was more successful with Alistair
Tessier, the most demanding of the group if he lacked attention but the most amenable if you paid some. I fed him a complex fiction about the horrors of keeping matchmakers at bay.

“Manhattan,” said I, “is populated almost exclusively by women with unmarried girl friends.”

“The
horror
!” he cried. “But don’t they know you’re gay?”

“To unmarried women and their allies, there is no such thing as gay or straight. There are only two types of male: husbands and human sacrifices. As I am unmarried, I belong to the
latter.” Drawing him close for a confidence, I whispered, “If I dropped my guard for even a moment, I would be ensnared by a bridezilla.”

“They’re
everywhere
!” he put in, clearly thrilled that I was trusting him with personal material. “No beauty is safe!”

“Beauty?” I echoed. “Once she’s over thirty, the New York bachelorette would take Dracula’s cousin
Zoltan.”

In fact, I left New York because I was bored with it. I had collected New York like a matchbook: where to eat, how to dress, whom to quote. I needed to be uninformed once again, young and bewildered. I wanted my wonder back.

The real question is: Why did Jutter Flexx come to town? What was he looking for in one of the least imposing cities in all Luzerne County?

JASON:

Well
! Didn’t the Jutter stories keep coming? His parents live nearby, a wealthy admirer was setting him up in a passion cottage for two, he was returning to college on a local scholarship. Phil Conroy’s At Homes were
consumed
with speculation! But we should cut to the romance, so let me speak—
finally
!—of the night Jutter Flexx met Lyle Hickock.

First, the boilerplate. Lyle really
was
the town mechanic, as surely as if he had been elected to the post, like a mayor. He ran his own business, a fixit garage called Hickock Motors, and anyone with a brain and a troubled auto sent it to Lyle’s shop. He charged top fee, but he could repair anything and never cheated with hidden add-ons. Other garages would flub jobs or expand them falsely. Lyle was honest.

That’s the boring part. I mean, cars?
Please
. What matters is that Lyle was the maddest tall masculine underspoken big hands scavenging eyes chin of death not exactly handsome but
cannot
take your eyes off him character in the province. Queens would go ever so silent around him, or simply cascade to the floor in an opera trill of despair.

And the
stories
! He was brutal, he was tender, he was twins, he was a hit man. They said that if a boy friend displeased him, Lyle would take him into a private room in the garage, force boxing gear on him, and punch him around to a tape of crowd noises at a championship fight.

He’d say, “We’ll just put on the gloves and go a few rounds, buddy boy.” Allegedly. And I can only add that Lyle would have looked utterly devastating in those dippy oversized boxer’s shorts they have—you know, where the waist is too high?
Everlast, like love eternal. Except Lyle’s love was Blitzkrieg.

Only his ex-
boy friends could tell for certain, true. But no one knew any of Lyle’s ex-boy friends. They were the invisible man.

“
Precisely
,” said Alistair Tessier, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

“The grisly tales!” Phil Conroy put in.

Kenny Fox made remark: “Lyle Hickock has the shoulders of a
murderer
!”

“And,” Phil Conroy purred. “Don’t they say that the City Council has been bribed?”

“To do what?” Alistair asked.

And Kenny, helping himself to his fourth pink lady (a regional favorite, lemon cupcakes with cherry-apple icing), put in “Doesn’t Lyle fix their cars for free?”

Sex, corruption, secrets…these are a few of our favorite things. But then came the night—at
last
!—when Lyle showed up in Mary’s while Jutter was tending bar. Lyle stood around for a bit as the chatter level in the whole place rose from 3 to 9. Waiting just enough time for Jutter to take a few good looks and think it over, Lyle then went up to him and ordered a beer. What
brand
, you ask? The brand was
Love Me Tonight
!

“Their eyes crashed like
cymbals
!” Phil Conroy ever recalled.

“
Jutter was
helpless
!” Kenny Fox added.

“And Lyle smiled his pickpocket’s smile and said, ‘I haven’t seen you here before. Do you live with your folks?’” Phil’s version.

“No, he said, ‘You ever box, handsome?’” Kenny.

“Actually, what he said was ‘My truck’s outside. Can I give you a lift somewhere?’”

That was me. And they all stopped. They put down their cakes and coffees and waited. In their soul of souls, as true and righteous queens, they knew what Jutter’s answer to that must be.

RICK:

I have to admit, Lyle
Hickock did give our boy Jutter pause. In his California period as a prominent model, Jutter no doubt had crossed paths with many a professional hunk. And I would guess that he got any one of them he wanted.

Nevertheless, Lyle was what you don’t see all that much of in the modeling world: natural, break-the-rules sexy. His muscles came from labor rather than the gym, and his style was accidental. Lyle never entered a room: he just walked in. And he didn’t strike some studied pose: he waited, simply standing there. If he liked you, he went over to you. And if you liked him back, he took you home.

Anyway, all of Mary’s was avidly watching Lyle and Jutter talking over the bar. When other customers came up, Jutter would wave them off to the other bartender on duty, without taking his eyes off Lyle. He was on love break, I guess. No one had ever seen Jutter focus on anyone like this, and small towns do enjoy their little dramas. A straight crowd would have started calling out bets on whether or not Lyle would get Jutter home that night; gambling is one of the things hetero males are genetically inclined to, like playing basketball or jumping bail. Mary’s clientele simply turned into that thing that homo males are born to be: an audience. At the theatre, at an Oscar night soirée, or just innocently bystanding as Joan Rivers and Arianna Huffington dispute rights to the last remaining unit at a Hollywood gift-bag table, gays know how to appreciate the arts. Why? Because we’re so good at performing ourselves.

Around straights.

No, I’m slipping off-topic. The time: late. The place: Lyle meets Jutter at Mary’s. The boys: one grinning masculine youth and one mysteriously threatening slightly older guy. Lyle was mysterious not because of any slithery attitudes, but because he was so seldom seen around town. His customers at Hickock Motors never spoke to or even glimpsed Lyle. All they got was Miss McEwen, the young woman at the front desk. Legally, she had just become Mrs. Raimondi, but she continued as Miss McEwen because that better described her business manner, which was concise and unyielding. Short to the edge of the brusque:
Miss
. Pointed and fast-moving, no waster of time:
McEwen
. It was she who passed on to you the details of the repair assessment and warned you what the bill would run to, and if you were foolish enough to resent any part of it—or even ask a passing but unnecessary question or two—she would fix you with a look and say, “We have a policy, sir.” Worse, if you asked to speak to Mr. Hickock himself, perhaps out of a sense of self-importance, Miss McEwen would allow only that one of the mechanics might be available at some future time, “schedule permitting.” She would affect a dubious tone for the last bit, because We have a policy, sir. And if, after this mildly encoded warning to back off, you persisted, you would be given the contact information for other garages in the area. That meant that you were more or less banned from Hickock Motors.

So even Lyle’s regular customers had never met him, and that gives rise to legends. False ones. The business about Lyle’s boxing sessions, for instance: he did enjoy sparring for a round or two, but not with an unwilling partner. Once you agreed, however, Lyle did like it edgy. He never spoke of “having sex,” much less of “making love.” He’d say, “I want to work you over.” And I can tell you this for fact: when one of Lyle’s dates asked why he got so intense when fucking, Lyle would shrug and say, “It’s just something that’s in me.”

As for the tales of Lyle’s being down with the city fathers: the guy who owns the go-to garage is down with everyone who matters. This is taking us very far from the beating heart of our Luzerne County Romance, but I want to take us yet farther and do a bit about the town and what it was like to move in, total stranger, with one very close friend to squire me around.

I need to do this, because some metropolitan gays nourish preconceptions about small-town gay life. They think the cuisine consists of your mother’s tin of index cards from the 1960s, the clothes are Look what I found in the attic, and the sex is hayseeds coming too soon.

In fact, cities have the museums, theatres, and restaurants, but otherwise gay culture is the same all over America. That’s why newbies fit in so easily. Jason made it even easier for me, because—as we have seen—he belonged to a set. What gay guy doesn’t? Has there ever been a lonesome queen? Unhappy, perhaps. Even loveless and frustrated. But never lonesome: we live like wolves, in packs.

Jason’s pack leader was Phil Conroy, the one who gave all the major At Homes. Phil had the nicest place, and he was a generous host. Not that the queens needed a lot of refreshment: they dined on fun. They were really quite friendly to me after a prelude of being suspicious, if only as a formality. Jason said they favored me because he had warned them to treat me with respect. But I think they genuinely enjoyed having someone new to try their old routines on.

Phil’s act was the most venerable, tweaked and rejuvenated over the years—
The Bette Davis Show
, a television variety hour in the now defunct format of hostessed song, dance, and sketch comedy. Like what Carol Burnett used to do. Phil played Bette, miming the cigarette in his right hand as he tried to discourage the announcer from bringing on guests and failed to stop the dancers from horning in with production numbers.

There was a lot of improvising on
The Bette Davis Show
. Alistair Tessier, the announcer, was known to propose as the next guest anyone from Mae West to Captain Ahab, and sometimes one of the queens would rush the set and, impersonating the guest Alistair had introduced, break into art. We in the studio audience were allowed to heckle Bette; it seemed sensible, because, as portrayed by Phil, she had style without content. In fact, except for the interloping dancers,
The Bette Davis Show
was a place with no there in it except for the occasional piquant calamity. A running gag found Bette coming on to declare, very grandly, “Andt now…,” to which we would all feign exasperation to cry, “And
when
?” Once, to pacify us, Bette grew sentimental and said, “Some of you may ask why I do this show,” and Kenny Fox called out, “Some of us ask
if
you do this show!”

The dancers did more than Bette did. It was somehow understood that the title of each production number answered to a scan of seven syllables accented on the second and sixth, the title itself broken into the name of the dance, followed by its
generical description.

Thus, Bette would cry, “
Andt now, whadt a treadt for everybutty, as the Bette Davisettes present their interpretation of ‘The Punch and Judy Polka.’” The
l in
Polka
was not only pronounced but emphasized. “The Bette Davisettes, ladties andt gentlemen!”

And everyone would dash “onstage” to hum vaguely and fling himself around for a bit, then to make a mass exit while singing, “As we dance to ‘The Punch and Judy Polka!’”

“Luffly,” Bette would cry out, leading—in fact exclusively offering—the applause as the dancers raced back to the couches.

“Encore!” shouts Bert Reed.

“
I’ll
be the judge of thadt!” Bette rasps.

Meanwhile, the announcer would try to bring on the usual has-been guest—most often Gale Storm or the Ritz Brothers, although the first time I caught the show it was David
Rabe, the playwright known for his Vietnam plays in the 1970s.

“David Rape?” Bette echoed. “Who’s he? Some actor!”

No matter, for the dancers again flooded the scene, now to favor us with “The Harvest Moon Cachucha.” While they pirouetted off on the line “As we dance to ‘The Harvest Moon Cachucha!’” Bette reappeared, looking dangerous.

“The Punch and
Judyettes, ladties andt gentlemen!” she almost spat out. “And now—”

“But
when
?” we shouted.

And the dancers tumbled right back onstage for “The Shantytown
Gavotta.” This time, Bette didn’t get out of the way; she held center stage, seething. When the ensemble finally got lost to “As we dance to ‘The Shantytown Gavotta,’” Bette cried, “The Shantytown Towelettes, ladties andt gentlemen! And if I never see them again, it will be much too soon! But now…time for sermonette!”

Assuming a spiritual pose, Bette came downstage with “Yes, the devotional part of our show, to comfort
heardts in tormendt. This evening’s text will be…the first date of Jutter and Lyle!”

And the variety show evaporated, as each queen offered his version of what must have happened, simultaneously editing everyone else’s version. The accounts now supported and now contradicted one another, as we learned how unprepared was our boy
Jutter for Lyle’s notion of true love ways.

“Is ‘work you over’ just a phrase, or does Lyle really—“

“And Jutter! So
shy
! All those hairy-chested tattoo boys are, you know. Butch in the streets, whimpering in the sheets.”

“Lyle has his patented script! He’s as rehearsed as Jay Leno, so if you know how to play along…”

“No, Lyle is never satisfied till he glimpses alarm in your eyes!”

“How would
you
know?”

“His mail carrier just
happens to be
my dietician’s cousin, and
he
says—”

I jumped in right here with “Lyle is actually a blend of tough and tender, and you never know which you’ll get. That’s how he lures you into his scene. He seduces you into trusting him to do untrustworthy things to you.”

Everyone went silent. Everyone was watching me and stealing quizzical glances at Jason.

“Don’t take me wrong,” I went on. “Lyle keeps it medically correct. But he is extremely possessive. He demands that you give up everything for him. Then, if you’re willing to, he suddenly can’t use you. He doesn’t love surrender. He loves resistance. That’s why he talks about putting on the gloves and going a few rounds—to keep you worried. There’s nothing to
depend on when you’re involved with Lyle, and sooner or later you will yearn to give him up and go with someone safe. But you mustn’t. You must never lose Lyle. Because, if you do, for the rest of your life, you’ll never know who you really are.”

In the long silence that followed, Alistair put a hand over his heart and Bert Reed shook his right fingers in the Italian gesture for awe.

But “Fiddlesticks!” Phil retorted.

“The very
notion
,” Alistair agreed, quickly removing his hand.

“What happens,” Bert ventured, “when Lyle meets another Lyle?”

“Were there two Napoleons?” I countered.

“I
scoff
,” Phil insisted.

“And who’s
your
informant?” Bert asked me.

I shrugged.

Jason was what one might call a queen of respect in this setting, so his friends were somewhat forbearing with me, for all their skepticism. But Jason knows me of old, and when the others are elsewhere he can say anything he wants to me. So he asks: where did I come by this information, anyway? This business of Lyle as…as everyone’s gay destiny. It was all so fantastic, so romantic, and so uncomfortably plausible. Yes. It is all that. I sympathized with his confusion. But I wouldn’t say any more.

Curiosity was killing him. “Don’t we have a bond?” he asked me later that night, when we were alone.

“A bond?” I echoed. I was in a jokey mood that night, and decided to unwind a bit. “Yes, our bond. And it all began with a shared experience when the Wilkes-Barre Little Theatre put on
Light Up the Sky
and your mother played the lead while my father played her husband. She was all over the place for three acts while my dad had just a few lines in one scene when all the other characters were enjoying a nasty rowdydow. Through it all, my dad was sitting on a couch holding a balloon on a stick, his head swinging from left to right and a comically amazed look on his face as he followed the argument. The audience ate it up and gave him the biggest hand of the evening. For which your parents didn’t speak to my parents for three years—and this, for some reason, made us pals for life. Our bond.”

“Why did you leave Manhattan?” he suddenly asked me. “You haven’t really said yet. Not
really
, I mean.”

We were driving along the main road through town that eventually becomes the county highway, dropping me off because I hadn’t yet bought a car. Another thing about small-town gay life: the gang chores up into workday car pools and special-event chauffeuring without question, as if living in a nineteenth-century commune with ideals and a vision.

“I left Manhattan,” I finally told him, “because two men can like and respect each other a very great deal yet never be suited. So we must part, my darling. And yet…life away from the loved one is isolating. So one comes looking for that which one has lost.”

“‘That which one has lost,’” he repeated, as if trying to scan the concept by chewing on the words.

“Perhaps,” I went on, “to find it again in a different form, so to be suited at last.”

“I never know what you’re talking about,” he replied. “Is that me? What you lost?”

I didn’t answer. We rode past the diner on my corner, and as he braked I hastily leaned over to peck his cheek. Then I got out and went into my place.

JASON:

I
ask
you! Such
riddles
of life in our
sideshow metropolis
! And meanwhile, there was the Lyle-Jutter thing, and the queens all
agog
, and the
stories
being
told
!

S
uch as: by the third date with Lyle, Jutter was unnerved. By the fifth…
petrified
! And by the seventh—
hiding out in an undisclosed location
! Well, actually, just an overnight at Todd Rifflin’s. During which who knows what went on? Although when you asked Todd, he simply flashed one of his CinemaScope grins and made some festive retort.

And. They. Say. That
…Lyle left
six
phone messages on Jutter’s answering machine, ranging from annoyed through angry to interplanetary. It seems that our Lyle was not used to being vanished on. No,
Lyle
does the vanishing, doesn’t he?

The
sermonette segment on
The Bette Davis Show
all but devoured the show itself, because we had so many unsubstantiated rumors to coordinate. And good old Rick—to whom we eagerly turned for those reports that he seemed to pull like rabbits out of his hat—suddenly went mute. He claimed he didn’t know any more than we did.