Turning Idolater (27 page)

Philip hovered at the edge of the crowd. He was
pulled into a twittering conversation with a group of ten
youngsters, all underage and drunk. All daring each other to take
up the path and walk the gauntlet. Philip thought to steer one of
these hotties away and forgo the task of parading through the mob.
However, these kids were nothing to him. He drifted further toward
the gap. He noticed the wall of flesh thickening within a block.
College men, boisterous and snapping each other with towels. Pretty
men. They made him think of an engineering major. He smiled.

Let’s do this
, he thought as if this was an
initiation ceremony. He needed no such thing. He could teach half
these dudes tricks that they could only imagine. Still, he felt
cleansed as he took to the street. As if all the
Izod
shirts
and sophisticated cologne had clogged his pores. The smell of men,
the taste of them in the night air — air that blended pepperoni and
crust, washed away Philip’s unnatural layers, baring his soul to a
darker, but truer self.

Philip unbuttoned his shirt allowing his silken
chest and pink nipples full vent. He mounted his most seductive
smile. He walked slowly, one hand in his pocket, the other on his
chin. He knew the pose. He knew it was irresistible. The money shot
— the one that got the tip jar filled on
manluv
. He felt the
eyes on him, heads turning and a murmuring from both sides of the
gauntlet. He heard familiar calls.
Hey, bubble-butt. Over here,
sweetie. You there — I’ve got something for you.
Philip smiled
and winked, but didn’t stop. He saw he had reached the rough trade
— the leather set, salivating over handlebar mustaches and mountain
men beards. Not his type, but he knew that he had to be an equal
opportunity flirt to survive in this world. Sprakie had taught him
that much. He saw some motion in that scabby crowd. He knew that if
he stopped now they would have him in a harness for a gangbang and,
although he was seeking new experiences, that one was not on the
list. He hastened toward the end of the line. There he saw the
usual posers — men who had walked the gauntlet and joined the
sidelines waiting for the trade to move on down.

Philip headed to the sidewalk. Suddenly, he caught a
glimpse of a shiny star — someone that far outshone him. No wonder.
It was Sprakie.

“Little Ishie,” Sprakie said. “Glad you’re taking in
the night air. Where’s your squeeze?” He looked behind Philip. “Is
he coming along, or did those big bad biker boys steal him
away?”

“Stop it,” Philip said. “He was tired and went to
bed.”

“And you weren’t in the mood? Duh. Excuse me. If you
weren’t, would you be here? And I’m proud of you. I watched your
progress and it flatters me in your education.”

Philip started to the sidelines, but Sprakie grabbed
his arm, a bit too forcefully for Philip’s tastes.

“What’s wrong?” Philip asked.

“Oh, nothing. Tradition is that when walking the
gauntlet, it’s a round trip. Let me escort you back.”

Philip pushed Sprakie’s hand away. “I’m fine on my
own.”

“Are you? I think not.” Sprakie’s brows raised
catching Philip’s attention. “I have stumbled upon some very
interesting things, I have. Well, not stumbled, but shown. That Mr.
Townsend fellow may be as ugly as a monkey’s ass, but he has shown
me a most interesting evening.”

“You didn’t . . .”

“Please. Even I have standards. But I think that
everyone should have standards. Even you.”

“What are saying?”

“Nothing yet. Come. Let’s walk the gauntlet back and
I’ll enlighten you.”

Sprakie commandeered Philip’s arm again, but this
time in a gentler manner. He moved Philip back toward the rough
trade. Philip ceased to see the gawkers. He listened to his long
time friend, who whispered many things. The tones were soft, but
real. They were rehearsed and verifiable. Philip’s sassy mood
turned dour — sad and deflated. He abruptly halted in front of
The Crown and Anchor
, halfway into the gauntlet.

The world spun. He had heard Sprakie’s words and
they fit so perfectly to his previous mood and inquisition that he
wished he had never come down this street. He would have preferred
a silent dark evening alone with Tee, happy and in denial. Sprakie
tugged at his arm, but Philip refused to budge.

“Leave me alone,” he said.

“Here in the middle of the street? You don’t need
these trolls. You need me. Come back to the hotel. Stay the night
with me. It’ll be like old times. And everything can be sorted out
in the morning.”

Philip stared at Sprakie. This man was always his
savior, but now he seemed too anxious to both sting and soothe. It
was too damn pat. For the first time in his life, Philip hated
Sprakie. The tattle he told may have been the truth, but it was
served raw and with too much delight. Then another hand touched
him. He had stayed too long mid street. The shoppers were sampling
his wares. Philip rounded on the hand prepared to bark and even
bite, when he saw another familiar face.

“Dennis.”

“Philip. I’m surprised that you’re doing the parade
thing. Where’s your partner?”

“Little tiff,” Sprakie said. “It’s under control.
Come, Philip.”

“It’s good to see you,” Philip said. It was. In this
morass of faceless flesh and with Sprakie tugging like a puppet
master, Philip gazed into Dennis’ pristine face. “Why are you
here?”

“I’m at
The Crown and Anchor
. Remember?”

Philip gazed at the hotel marquee, and then smiled.
“Sweet,” he said.

“Did you want to . . . to take the tour of the
place?”

“Kinda late for that, isn’t it?” Sprakie spat.

“Yes,” Philip said. “I need to be someplace other
than here.” He turned to Sprakie. “Or there.”

Sprakie trembled, turned on his heels, and then
disappeared into the sidelines.

“What’s his problem?”

“Can’t put my finger on it,” Philip said. “I need a
place to think, Dennis.”

“You
did
have a tiff.”

“Not yet. I’d like to avoid it, but I think it’s
coming up fast.” He turned toward
The Spiritus
. Suddenly, he
didn’t know why he was here. He wanted to be with Tee, but he
couldn’t be. He had to digest it all. The pieces fit and yet they
still tumbled. “Fast and soon, Dennis.”

Philip left the gauntlet, led by his young
engineering major into
The Crown and Anchor
.

“
Oh, my Captain! my Captain! noble soul! grand
old heart, after all! why should any one give chase to that hated
fish! Away with me! let us fly these deadly waters! let us home!
Wife and child, too, are Starbuck’s — wife and child of his
brotherly, sisterly, play-fellow youth; even as thine, sir, are the
wife and child of thy loving, longing, paternal old age! Away! let
us away! — this instant let me alter the course! How cheerily, how
hilariously, O my Captain, would we bowl on our way to see old
Nantucket again! I think, sir, they have some such mild blue days,
even as this, in Nantucket.”

Whispers. The hallway caroled ill in the dark as
Philip crept toward the door.
The Pink Swallow
creaked at
this hour — ghost of the seasons past, many hours laved by the sea.
He had seen some brightness in Dennis’ eyes and warmth within his
arms, but the passion was spent. His mind kept fast to this task —
this oh so onerous task. As he reached the door, he felt the eyes
on his back. He was sure there were souls watching him, coaxing him
to delay, to turn about and run full spin down the stairs into the
night. He sensed Sprakie watching from some tower above and Florian
assessing like a spider in the corner. Before Philip turned the
knob, he scanned the moonlit corridor. It held no secrets for him.
He had seen the bright darkness before on that night, sprawled
beneath the El in the teaming rain. Such was the sadness that crept
upon him now. However, he was resolved to bring himself to full
term.
Away! let us away! — this instant let me alter the
course!
Philip turned the knob.

The room was pitched in the shadows, the breeze
coursing the drapes through the open doors. The moon winked on the
balcony, yet seemed distant — as distant as the moon. Mid-bed was a
naked lump that stirred not. No snore. No breath assumed. Philip
gazed at Thomas and wondered whether he should be the stronger man
and let these things pass unnoticed — unsaid. It would spoil
Sprakie’s joy, it would.
There was some merit in that
.
However, Philip decided that when Tee awoke tomorrow, before his
first sip of coffee and plate of bacon, Philip would ask the hard
question.

Philip maneuvered in the dark. He hadn’t decided
whether he would sleep in that bed tonight. He feared waking Tee.
He feared Tee’s passion as a belay to his resolve. Quietly, he
stripped, the clothing falling to the floor in disarray, and then
he sat across from the bed — a naked child sated, yet unsated, so
fierce was his disquietude. He scanned the outline of his lover and
wondered what bedevilment made this so. Philip had been a good boy
— well, not in the sense of some Presbyterian God, but indeed in
the eyes of the species, in the eyes of the taboo totem. Hadn’t he
cast off from the rock of the righteous and followed this shadowy
form? Hadn’t he turned idolater and worshipped at the altar of a
new life?
Away! let us away! — this instant let me alter
course!

Thomas stirred. The form arose and sat opposite the
child. The pause stilled the breeze, almost turning the moon glow
off.

“Did you enjoy it?” Thomas asked.

Philip shifted about the chair, but did not
answer.

“I mean, I do not mind what you do. Who am I to
mind?”

No reply. Still and stark silence.

“Was it the Green Shorts Guy? I mean, he was a
handsome devil. I would not fault you in the least. It would be a
fine break from the old man of the sea.”

Philip raised a hand, barely perceptible, but
halting nonetheless. “Why did you lie to me?”

“Lie? Philip, what are you asking?”

“I’m used to tricks lying to me, Mr. Dye. I have had
them say some charming things to me. They’ve represented themselves
as princes and kings, but I have always known better. I always
humored them for the price, but I never took these as lies. They
never meant to hurt. It was part of the evening’s
entertainment.”

“What are saying, Philip? What lie have I told
you?”

Philip sniffed. He wiped the invisible tears that
had begun to flow. “You told me that no one ever saw your new works
in progress.”

Thomas stood. “That is correct.”

“Liar.”

“Why? Who has told you otherwise?”

“Flo sees your work.”

“He is my agent, Philip. Of course he needs to see
my progress. How else could he market the work? Be reasonable.”

“Reasonable?”

“Why, what has Flo told you?” Thomas’ breath hitched
as if the dawn came early and fear in its wake.

“Nothing,” Philip said. “Mr. Townsend is too chicken
shit to say anything to me. He spoke with Sprakie and that one’s
not shy. He was downright eager to tell me that you’ve been working
on a novel about Internet webcam sites and have spun a shining tale
about a string of murders.”

“Flo should not have told anyone about my work.”

“Wait,” Philip said. He was choking now. “There’s
more. Sprakie said that you needed to do some on-line research —
you know, to get all the details correct — chat rooms, one-on-ones
and the routines of the boys. Research, Mr. Dye.” Philip trembled.
He felt his nose clogged with emotion. He spluttered. “I’m nothing
more than research for this fucking book you’re writing. Nothing
more.”

Thomas reached out into the dark, but Philip was on
his feet, moving away to the corner. He shook and wept; such was
the hurt, from toe to breast. Thomas touched him, but Philip flung
his hand aside.

“Philip, you must believe me. You are not research.
You are . . .”

“Are what? I saw the file on your desk. I’m nothing
more than a chain of twinks you’ve snared to study so the great
Thomas Dye can make it to the Best Sellers list. I’ve been a
fucking fool. Sprakie is right in one thing. Never fall in love
with them. Never, never fall in love with them.”

Philip buckled. He plowed into the chair, his
weeping relentless. Thomas hovered. He trembled and tried to calm
Philip, but touching was off limits now. Tee hunkered down
appearing poised for an explanation, but Philip had imploded. He
might hear him, but he probably wouldn’t listen.

“My dearest lamb,” Thomas said. “It is true I am
writing a novel on the Internet murders.”

“Why?”

“It is rife.”

“Rife? What the fuck does that mean? Speak English
for once in your life.”

“Rife. Current — a current event. Such things
interest readers, but I was encouraged by others to do it. I was
compelled. It is true that I needed to research the Internet
processes. That led me to
manluv
. I did nothing wrong there.
Uncle Dean gave me a reference and I ran with it. It is true that
our one-on-one was meant to be research, but . . .”

“But what?”

Thomas reached for Philip’s wrist, and although it
was pulled away, it finally came within his tenuous grasp. “You
lingered with me.”

“Lingered?”

“You stayed on my mind. I saw you in my waking
dreams. I saw you in every page I wrote.”

“And you were writing about dying kids. You were
writing about Jemmy and Gordon Waters, whoever the fuck he was. You
were perusing police records and sleuthing
manluv
for juicy
tidbits to make your computer sing.”

“Yes.” Thomas shouted. “Yes, I was, but not you,
Philip. Not you. You made me feel . . .”