Look Away Silence
Edward C. Patterson
Dancaster Creative Writing
Smashwords Edition, July 2009
Copyright 2009 by Edward C. Patterson
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, “fair use” in teaching or research. Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpt), without written permission from the publisher.
Dedicated to the Volunteers of
The Hyacinth AIDS Foundation,
The NAMES Project
and
To my own fallen angels
Contents
Acknowledgements
Part One: Over-the-Counter-Encounter
Chapter One: Folding
Chapter Two: Ties
Chapter Three: Old World Coffee
Chapter Four: Christmas in the Cavern
Chapter Five: Quiet Moments
Chapter Six: First Impressions
Chapter Seven: Gifts
Chapter Eight: Meeting the Kielers
Chapter Nine: Resolutions
Chapter Ten: A Matter of Space
Chapter Eleven: Bed & Breakfast
Chapter Twelve: The Pope’s Nose
Part Two: The Great Divide
Chapter One: Westward Ho!
Chapter Two: A Proposition
Chapter Three: Remembrance
Chapter Four: Estes Park
Chapter Five: Pinnacle
Chapter Six: Not So Divine Retribution
Chapter Seven: When the Rockets Red Glare
Chapter Eight: Dawning Dusk
Part Three: The Unbrave
Chapter One: Learning the Ropes
Chapter Two: Perfect Stranger
Chapter Three: In Concert
Chapter Four: Blessings and Curses
Chapter Five: Christmas Again
Chapter Six: Episode Two
Chapter Seven: In the Land of Nod
Chapter Eight: Bringing in the Sheaves
Chapter Nine: The Best of Intentions
Chapter Ten: Holding On
Chapter Eleven: Letting Go
Part Four: The Mingling
Chapter One: Folding Again
Chapter Two: Finding the Thread
Chapter Three: Ties and Rings
Epilog: The Vigil I Keep
Acknowledgements
The challenges of authoring this novel were many, because it encapsulates a period of my life and a subset of my experience that might be best tucked away and forgotten as all traumas should be. However, when I volunteered as a middle-aged gay man to lend a hand in my community with AIDS patients, I thought it was the noble thing to do. As I learned, it was not, unless debilitating disease and emotional upheaval can be considered noble. The history told here belongs to others, however. It may be cobbled from the many partners who lived with AIDS and those who helped ease the suffering, but it is a shared experience, and thus needs to be shared with you. Every American knows about AIDS now, and might even recall the period when it ravaged the gay community, stirring up new phobias and hysteria that might have been settled. However, the lessons should not be forgotten. With a new upsurge in cases within the gay community as a new wave of young men feel invincible as they dance with life, perhaps it’s best to recall what can happen when the back is turned on the obvious
I want to thank all those over the years who mentored me in community service, in the GALA Chorus organization, including the New Jersey Gay Men’s Chorus, the Hyacinth AIDS Foundation, AmFAR, the NAMES Project and many local churches, food banks, financial sources throughout the State of New Jersey and especially the volunteers who consistently participate in AIDS Walks throughout the country. A special thank you is given to my editor Margaret Stevens for the yeomen effort in getting this work into its sterling, publication condition. Also a thanks to Kindleboard.com and Michael R. Hick’s author support group for being there nightly to encourage me to complete this work — a difficult oar to pull over mostly emotional waters. As for my angels, I leave that thank you to Louise Kieler on the steps of the Washington Monument.
Edward C. Patterson
Part One
Over-the-Counter Encounter
Chapter One
Folding
1
I am a child of Christmas. Some people are Easter-kids. Others get fired up over the Fourth of July or wax poetic for Arbor Day. Not me. Christmas has always been the focus of my year, because everything that has been good in my life has come down from the sparkling Yule Fairy and wrapped up in bows and striped paper. As little children, we wish for many things at Christmas — trains, bikes, Legos, baseball gloves and some, like me, asked Santa for an ironing board. Now that would bode well and never shock, except my name is Martin and not Martina, and . . . it quite put my Grandpa off his Monday Night Football. My mother was cool with it, otherwise she would have bought me a GI Joe and insisted I dig trenches and drop fake bombs over the chenille. However, I wouldn’t have minded a GI Joe either, a fact my mother also sensed. So it was an ironing board for me. Vivian Powers’ sissy boy was devoted to Christmas from that day forward. I knew there was a Santa Claus and his linen closet was impeccably arranged.
Across the folds of time and through the tumble-downs of Christmases over the years, I found all my requests fulfilled. When I was old enough to find true love (or so I thought it true love . . . I mean, every time it was true love), it was at Christmas. That was the year I had drunk too much eggnog and awoke in a stranger’s bed — a stranger who unwrapped me like a party favor and gave me the most wonderful Christmas gift of all. In hindsight, the ironing board was better.
Despite the exciting sensation of joining with another soul, I learned fast that such passion was like the sea at ebb tide. I know about the sea. I live by the sea, here in Long Branch where the tide comes in and then sucks out a bit of the Jersey shore, a bit like my first passionate experience. Metaphors are not my forte. I should stick to laundry. I saw then true love for what it was — as false as Ru Paul’s D-cup. It didn’t last past New Years Day. And yes, my heart was broken. I cried and cried like a bride left at the altar. However, I was a lucky boy — still am. I have a mother like no other. She sat me down, dried my tears and said, “Marty,” (I hate being called Marty, but mothers can’t be corrected — at least not mine). “Marty, he was a stranger. Didn’t know ya and didn’t want to know ya.”
Still, I loved what’s his name (funny how I forgot his name . . . Frank. Frank . . . that’s it. I remember his face, his hands and his hot breath in the night, but I still need to squeeze the corners of my mind for his name). My heart was shattered. No amount of Vivian Powers’ insightful advice could bring me around. However, my mother is a straightjacket case at times. Nothing controls her. The few words of advice that she has given throughout my life have stayed with me. So I remember exactly what she said, because it echoes every time I fall in and out of love, whenever Christmas turns into Easter.
“Marty, he was a stranger. Didn’t know ya and didn’t want to know ya. Just like ya father. None of them are worth the spit they splatter. But always get at least one thing from each of them, and you’ll have enough carfare for the Path line to the city, where you can find a better one. In your father’s case, I got you, Shithead.” (She’s so endearing that way, but I’d rather be called Shithead than Marty).
Of course, Viv (I never called her Mom or Mama or Mother dearest — her choice) was never a proper homemaker. She knew to buy me an ironing board, but only so I could do her ironing. My dad, the mysterious Mr. Powers, gave me my name, which I thought to change from Powers to Jones, because Jones fitted me better. He hadn’t stayed around to top the tree with the fairy angel, but I never cared. In fact, Viv told me she wasn’t sure who my father was as there were three candidates for the month. All the men in my life were defective, except one. They were all either druggies, old men, flaming queens, drunks, or just lumps on my pillow, except that one; and he . . . well, perhaps he was the most defective of all, because I’ve never really found my way out of Christmas with him, even though Good Friday has come and gone.
Perhaps I’m the defective one. Perhaps Viv was wrong and I’m the one not worth the splatter. I can’t help it. I have standards. Men have taken a gander at me (not bad looking . . . me, that is. Not an ounce of fat, and that without a gym bunny schedule), and picture me in some interlude — some Act One in their own play. Unfortunately, Act One is always followed by . . . well, you get the drift. Sometimes they hear me sing (and I’m a veritable Lorelei — first tenor and soloist with the Jersey Gay Sparrow Chorus). Whatever it is, they end by worshipping at my shrine — the well-pressed sheets from my sacred iron capped by perfectly fluffed pillows. Morning always brings a different light. At night, they are Tom Cruise. At dawn, they transform into the bell ringers of Notre Dame. The grand consolation is that every year brings another Christmas and another handy appliance — Vive la Viv, my manicurist mother, who brought home lovelier men than I have ever nabbed — and those without an iron board to entice them.
Despite my gifted voice and inclination for housework, I couldn’t live my life under my mother’s wing. She scarcely noticed me, her little shithead, who, as I got older, got under foot. I had to close my eyes more than once to her tumbling over the threshold with one or, dare I say, two male companions, who had likkered her up and thought they had her at a disadvantage. Little did they know. They may have had their frolic, but always get at least one thing from each of them, and you’ll have enough carfare for the Path line to the city, where you can find a better one. I supposed some day that I would have a little brother or sister and learn to change diapers, scrub bassinets, and all the other happy chores that motherhood brings. But no. Viv just managed a collection of diamonds, pearls and emeralds. They were gaudy things, not to my tastes or I’d have pinched a few. However, as time went on, and I graduated from Red Bank High School, there were more than a few hints from the maternal maw that I should get to college, or a job and, by all means, into my own hermitage, such as it is. The suggestions were subtle in the mornings over coffee and English Muffins. “How’s the job hunt coming, dear?” In the evenings — those hazy evenings a la Viv, the point was sharper. “You’re still here, Shithead?” In any case, college was out. Couldn’t afford it and no one that I ever knew got a degree in laundry. I could have pursued my vocal training, but that would preclude that I had vocal training to begin with, which I hadn’t. I was the youngest member of the Jersey Gay Sparrows, and while the Chicken Hawks often were on my tail, they were also jealous queens seeking to push me aside and away from the prime solos. So I did what any respectful young man that had more than a foot out of the closet would do. I went into retail.
2
Christmas and retail are friends, as close as Marley and Scrooge. In the sprawl of Eatontown Mall stood paradise — a Christmas chaos called Abraham & Straus. I bought me a suit and got me an interview to swim in the rarified air of departmental retail duties. I saw myself as the perfect go-to person in the linen department. I could live my life in thread count and percale — heaven on earth. There’s nothing like the aroma of fresh linen — clean and mountainy, with a promise to bless the chest, to caress the shoulders and snuggle the toes with its gentle static-free cling — an adoration well beyond that of the Magi. However, to my disappointment, the management of the store saw me more as a behind-the-counter type in the men’s department amidst a sea of ties and pants and shirts and sweaters. So instead of my Elysian Fields of Canon and Burlington Mills, I was lost to the Forest of Arden — Men’s wear.
Retail didn’t pay much, but within six months, my mother awoke to an empty kitchen and asked her question no more. I found an apartment — not very classy, but it had possibilities. It was a first floor back dealie with a rear entrance and a small courtyard. I couldn’t see the ocean from my window, but I could smell the clams when they ripened — not the most encouraging aroma, but it was my stink and it stunk just fine for me. It was private for when I had my little heartbreak evenings, when the stink was worse than rotting clams, but that too was my stink. I was also within walking distance of the nearest gay bar — The Cavern, which would be a blessing if I didn’t visit it so often, donating my meager income to the latest assortment of fruity refreshments of the adult kind. I was an adult now (barely), so what better way to exhibit that fact than to imbibe a bit, and more than a bit. After all, it was just a stagger across the street, through the alley, along the beach and into my courtyard palace.
So I thrived, after a fashion. Then came Arthur — Arturo, a stunning man, who wandered home with me one night and never left. Well, Christmas be damned, he did leave, but not fast enough. He stayed for six months, two of which were quite nice actually. He didn’t work, so I left my daily bed unmade; and he would be off spending my money at the Cavern by the time I arrived home. It was fine with me. I joined him, and then we’d laugh and play volleyball and run about naked on the beach (after dark, when neighbor eyes were dimmed to see us). However, Christmas came to a close after a sixty-day period, like an expired Library book that I forgot to return. Arturo had another little addiction other than Appletinis and beer. Meth. He was not a Methodist, would that he was, and I am not judgmental when it comes to another man’s predilections. However, when the cost is visited upon my bank account and the benefits of the bed fade, I usually become as mad as Queen Mab. My scant income could not compete with his habit. Therefore, he augmented his income with a better-heeled married man who made him his little lunchtime tidbit. Dinners went to a leather daddy who lived in Asbury Park and would pick Arturo up on the corner and redeposit him back there like clockwork. My evenings were spent listening to snores. So we argued.
Arturo turned out to be a mean son-of-a-bitch. He trashed my place one evening, and when I threw him out into the courtyard, he howled like a cat — my neighbors stirring to call the police, who showed up at my door wondering why a young swishy thing like me would even consider letting a bum like Arturo be my roommate. (We did the roommate thing on the police report). The next day, I took off from work and called my sister, Russ — a fellow ironing board surfer, who was also a Gay Sparrow and worked in retail. Together, we packed Arturo up and showed him the door. He was more docile in the mornings — pleading even, but Russ was born with a steel corset. He deposited Arturo on the sand without as much as a z-snap. I was glad to know this tough little baritone from the Tuxedo store — fiery charm in the declarative and a fine connoisseur of dust ruffles and dainty hand towels. I decided to live alone from that day forward. After all, I’m my mother’s son and had to do her proud. But then, Christmas came along and . . .
Chapter Two
Ties
1
It was Christmas again and through the hallowed doors of Abraham & Straus, lady shoppers prodded and poked through the racks while bored husbands watched the unruly children or passers-by in skirts. I always found it difficult when children ran amuck beneath the forest of ready-to-wear. However, give me an army of the brats rather than the heaps of sweaters the lady shoppers managed to unseat from the counters. Folding. Refolding. No matter how many times I sorted the cashmere into size and color order, the rainbow would unfurl in the wake of the shopping herd.
I had become a master at sweater resettlement on the holiday display. I was also an expert at attacking the shirt table, the browsers unsorting the sizes. Fortunately, the plastic wrap and pins kept the folds intact, except when a particularly nasty specimen of shopper would open the wrap, unpin the shoulders and let the garment drape. There ought to be a law. It was enough to shake me out of my holiday mood, and that was a difficult feat. When I smelled the holly, I was filled with the gift of the ages — the thoughts of a new vacuum broom and an assortment of attachments — that is, if Viv read my hints correctly. It was on a day of such mixed feelings, in the wake of a shirt destroying Wildebeest, who frankly was larger than one, when I felt the prickle. Call it good will to men or Wildebeests, but I always knew when the world was sorting me by size and color. A holiday hunch. I twitched, disregarding the mess. I strutted to my counter — a great glass and wood playpen festooned with tie racks and wallets and key chains. We even had a wide range of gloves — from rabbit fur lined to Crocodile Dundee — anything to warm your digits or tickle your fancy. However, I retreated to the counter, because I felt the prickle. I fiddled with my paperwork, not that it needed fiddling, but because I didn’t want to appear too interested in anything except my work. I was being watched. The eyes darted from behind the jacket rack. They shifted occasionally to the pants and coats, but always back through the jackets and out to the counter. Watched — or rather, cruised.
It was not an unusual circumstance. I mean, with my lovely form, many a hoohoo was caught in my fairy ring. The secret was not to acknowledge it too suddenly or too auspiciously. There are rules to this courtship of eyes — rules that a gay boy learns in the schoolyard and on the fields of Venus. The shopper pretended to be checking out jackets, but he was really checking me out, fishing for a reason to come forward and state his case — a wink perhaps, or a subtle stroke near the crotch. I was flattered. He wasn’t bad looking, although a bit gruffer than my usual type. He had a five-o’clock shadow and it was scarcely three. He wore a strange thing for New Jersey — a straw cowboy hat — a bit too small for his head, but with all the rhinestone cowboys on the Jersey shore, why not a buckaroo shopper grazing in the jacket rack.
I kept to my paperwork, but peeked to see his progress. I had nothing planned tonight. Well, nothing special. I meant to head to the Cavern with Russ and lift the eggnog in song with a rag-tag collection of Jersey Gay Swallows. However, art never belayed a rugged cowboy in the jacket thickets. I couldn’t stretch the paper game for too much longer. The stacks would be a mess soon, and if you get too far behind, the place would look like Filenes’ basement instead of A&S’ finest. I remember that the prickle suddenly ceased. I darted about and the eyes were gone. Shoot! I then remember spotting the ugliest tie I had ever seen in my cravat forest — a neon purple thing with a subtle charcoal fleck through the fabric. Yuck. That will never sell. I stole another glance toward the jackets, but my cruiser was gone.
“I hate Christmas,” came a voice, which didn’t startled me, because I knew it well.
It was Russ. I just ignored him and stroked the ugly purple tie.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you. You hate Christmas, although any sissy worth his salt wouldn’t brag about it. Watch out or I’ll cut up your gay membership card.”
Russ leaned on the glass top.
“I just polished that,” I complained. I really hadn’t, but the nerve of the man. He should know better. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“I’m on break, hon,” Russ announced. “And did I mention? I hate Christmas.”
I had had this conversation about Christmas with Russ for every Christmas since ninth grade. Still, I had to say it. “Best time of the year for retail. Fresh merchandise. Lot’s of hungry shoppers. Plenty of fabric in hand, and sales, sales, sales.”
“Not to mention, no rest for the weary,” Russ said.
“Well, rest ye Merry Mary men, dearie, but not on my glass counter.”
Russ pouted. “This girl’s feet are in the Pearl Bailey zone.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch. I wish I had a boss like yours in that fucking shoebox you work in. If I walked away from my counter as many times as you walked out of Tux and Ties, I’d be shit-canned.”
Russ stifled a yawn. I ignored it. He was always trying to get my goat.
“Formal wear,” he said, with his usual condescending campy air. “Formal wear just doesn’t sell like this crap from Santa’s elves.” He brushed his hand through the ties — my ties — even that ugly purple tie that you couldn’t give away at a tollbooth on the Garden State Parkway. “Besides, when you work in retail, never work big and schlock. Work exclusive. Work for perks.”
Suddenly, he grasped my arm and I felt the prickle again. I knew that prickle didn’t come from Russ. We were too much the sisters to generate any steam. His head lowered and his voice dropped.
“Honey, honey, honey,” he mumbled. “Look at that perk in the jacket racks. Maybe I should start working in schlock retail.”
My cruiser was back — eyes, hat and five o-clock shadow.
“Don’t be so obvious, Russ. He’s been checking me out for the last half-hour. But you know how it goes. They come in, look at this pretty ass, wink and wait, and then they open their mouths. And there it ends.”
“Give it a chance, hon.”
“They’re all strangers. Don’t know me and don’t want to know me.”
I gave a start. It was as if Viv stood beside me, her stringy raven hair kissing her shoulders — her Estee Lauder aroma dripping over the glass. I was my mother’s son. Shithead. Russ conveyed a stern look of gay wisdom. He had been around the block more than I had — danced more, screwed more, and was beat up more. In many ways, just like Viv, only with more verve than the manicurist’s hippie heritage. Less flower power. More Scarlet O’Hara.
“I know these over-the-counter encounters,” Russ said. He fanned himself with his hand. “Who knows? Perhaps a little Christmas cheer would do us all some good. You know, a little pick-me-up.” He glanced toward the racks. “He doesn’t look so little to me, hon. There might be a stallion under that cowboy lid.”
“Don’t encourage me,” I said. And I was encouraged. After all, it was Christmas, the time of the year I would pick up the matching gift to go with the vacuum broom. “That’s what I love about you, Russ. You’re so practical. You’re encouraging me to pick up a man while I’m on the clock. Do you want me to lose my job?”
“Not much of a job, you know. Still, it pays the electric bill in that little shanty you maintain, I suppose; especially now that Mr. Meth is gone.”
That pissed me off. I ran my hands forcefully through the ties, spinning them in their carousel. I wished Russ would toddle back to that fru fru mall shop that employed him — employed him to take a break every hour. Russ bowed, not in forgiveness, but because it annoyed me.
“Sorry,” he said. “Perhaps, that one over there’s a millionaire on the prowl. A Texas oil man.”
“A millionaire who shops at A&S. Give me a fucking break. And, speaking about breaks, isn’t yours up?”
Russ careened on the counter despite my admonishing against his fingerprints on my well-polished counter top.
“Listen to your Auntie Russ. Never pass up an opportunity to take what is rightfully somebody else’s.”
“Listen to your Sister Martin. That’s the fastest ticket to hell. I know.”
“Hell, girl. According to the Pope, you and I are going to hell — table for two reserved on the aisles. Best seats in the house, waiting for the devil’s striptease.”
“Shoo. Back to work.”
A lady shopper appeared at the sweater stacks and looked like she needed help.
“Shouldn’t you be helping her?” Russ said, winking. “Some retailer you are.”
I turned my attention to the shopper, while Russ scooted over to the jacket rack, probably to get a better look at the mystery man. Russ was such a bitch at times. I guess if I wasn’t interested in my stalker, Russ wanted a gander. He took table scraps if offered — hell, even if not offered. I don’t know why we became such friends. Maybe it was the Viv in him I loved. He had the same daring fuck the world, I don’t want to get off attitude. It was like having a portable mother and one that probably cared for me more. After all, I was Mrs. Powers’ little accident, not that she neglected her maternal duties. However, I was always that complication in her life that didn’t fit well into the rest of the puzzlement that life really is.
“Can I help you?” I asked the shopper, but really had my eyes averted to the jacket rack.
The shopper smiled dimly, her yellow teeth flashing a wanton smile.
“Can I show you something?” I insisted.
She ignored me. She was wasting my time. Why did they always think their time was more valuable than mine? By the time she moved away, the cruiser was gone, probably fleeing at Russ’ approach. Russ returned, like snagglepuss.
“He wasn’t that good looking,” he announced. “Good ass, medium hands and about a nine and a half shoe.”
“You scared him off. Where did he go?”
“Well, you know your chances of . . .”
Suddenly, he was back. He emerged from behind the leather jackets and approached the counter. I slipped back behind the glass, pushing Russ away.
“Okay, girlfriend, your break’s up. Disappear.”
Russ didn’t budge.
“Leave,” I whispered. I introduced a sinister malevolence into my voice, a demonic grunting that Russ could not interpret any other way than get out of here now or I’ll kill you with a clean heart. Russell snarled like a cat, but flitted away. And he’s at least a size eleven shoe, I remembered thinking.
2
The man stopped just short of the counter. He wasn’t as rugged as I first thought. He had a lovely face and a slight mustache, which blended into his shadowy beard intentionally to increase my prickle. He was also shorter than I expected. Distance is a hard judge of these particulars, and I was just peeking after all. Staring gets you nowhere. I busied myself with the ties. Still, the man made no move toward his business. I knew I would need to help this along. He didn’t look like a shy guy, but what does a shy guy look like? Nothing ventured, so I stopped my tie fiddling and assumed my best retail pose.
“Did you want me to match something up?” I asked, punctuated with a pixie smile. That always worked to get them off a dime.
Then he fixed me with his eyes — frosty blue. I trembled. It wiped my pixie smile away. I had never seen such a gracious look in all my days on this here Jersey shore. Sea blue eyes — Caribbean seas reflecting pink sands.
“I was thinking,” he said. He had a distinct drawl — something past Louisiana, perhaps down El Paso way. “I was thinking of a tie to go with . . .”
“To go with . . .” I asked, heading him off at the pass, Amigo. “To go with a particular shirt? I can match one up for you, if you pick out the shirt.”
He came closer, shifting from one foot to the other. I remember wanting to steady him with my hand. Stop bobbing, man. You’re making me seasick.
“Well, actually, it’s a gift,” he drawled.
A gift. Father or lover? I thought.
“Great,” I snapped, suddenly less pixie and more employee of the month. “Then, you don’t need to match it to anything but a personality. Is he a relative?”
“No. Not really.”
“Well, does he like silk? Designer names?” I frittered through the tie racks, my hands sweeping dangerously close to that ugly, purple tie. I stopped at the French stuff. “These paisleys are all the rage.”
“Do you like them?” he asked.
I winced. Why should that matter? You’ve spent all this time cruising me from the jacket rack, only to ask me if I like the paisleys. Better to talk about the weather.
“No. Not really. Too busy. They clash with stripes. I think they’ll be out of fashion as fast as they came in.”
The man swallowed, casting his eyes toward the tie spindle.
“Well, if you were picking something out for . . . for a special friend, what would you pick out?”
Special friend? I was crestfallen. Another waste of my time. My eye swept across the tie display now resting, as vengeance dictated, on the one tie that was beyond human nature to wear — the ugly, neon purple tie. Hideous. I plucked it off the rack with considerable élan.
“This one,” I said, trying not to laugh.
“Are you sure?” he asked. He snatched at it as if it was a raw piece of liver. “The color is a bit . . . well, very hard to match with anything. I don’t know.” He peeked at the price tag. “Wow,” he said. “Well, I’ll be guided by your judgment. It’s a special gift. I’ll take it.”
“Great,” I said. I regretted it. It was a rough joke to play on such a cute man. He was a bit rough around the edges — square jawed and stocky shouldered. “Do you need a box?”
“Yep.”
“Gift wrap? We offer free gift-wrap. Just go up the escalator to the right.”
“No . . . ah . . . um . . . no gift wrap.”
I folded the tie over my hand. Hideous, but expensive. It almost bit me. I thought to pull it back and tell him my tastes were as peculiar as a pimple on the Pope, but, what the hell, I was too embarrassed to fess up.
“You can’t go wrong with Givenchy, sir,” I said instead. “Good choice.” The customer is always right, even if the customer was shopping for some unsuspecting friend who will open the box and probably puke.
“A bit eye opening,” he said.
“Breaks the ice at parties.”
“Yep. Breaks the ice.”
“Credit card?”
“Yep, A&S.”
“Good. That’ll be $36.99.”
I rang up the sale while the man still fidgeted. Then, he tapped on the glass. I noticed fingerprints on the glass top, damn that Russ.
“I was . . .”
“Yes?”
“I was also wondering . . .”
“Did you need shirts or socks . . . socks for those . . . big . . . well, underwear maybe?”
“No, thanks.”
“Then, Merry Christmas,” I said, handing him the bag.
“Thank you. You too.”
The man turned quickly, but then hesitated again. He turned back.
“Did you forget something?” I asked, hoping. Second thoughts on the color. “Did I forget to return your credit card?”
“Well, no,” he said. He gazed to the ceiling. He really appeared shaken. Finally, he cropped his elbows on the counter and met my eyes squarely — Caribbean blue meets Carrara black marble. “You know, I’ve never did anything like this before,” he stammered. “If I’m out of line or offend you, please . . .”
I leaned in now. This one needed the full bull pull. I whispered in his ear.
“I’ll save you the time. I’m family also and . . . I’ve been watching you too.”
“Oh, thank God,” he declared. He closed his eyes as if he were in church set to shout his hallelujahs. “That’s such a relief, I can’t tell you.”
“We’re everywhere, you know. But you wanted to ask me something.”
“Yes. I was wondering if you’d like to go somewhere and have a cup of coffee or something?”
Ah, the coffee ceremonial, I thought. At last.
“And what kind of something did you have in mind?” I remember laughing. He sighed, his eyes darting toward the floor. This was a tender flower — a gentle cornflower eyed gentleman. I had to be careful not to crush him with my raging sunflower flare. I reached across the counter. “I thought you’d never ask.”
He brightened.
“Then, that’s a yes?”
“That’s a yes,” I said. “I’m off in an hour. There’s a coffee shop by the Tux and Tie rental shop. Old World Coffee. Do you know where?”
“On the first floor. Yep.”
Suddenly, I spied the woman, who probably decided she wanted one of those damn expensive sweaters. Now that the deed was done, I had to get back to work, although the prickling was incessant now.
“I’ll see you there, then. By the way, I’m Martin.”
“Matthew.” He offered me his hand. A gentleman, are we? I gave it a shake. “My friend’s call me Matt.” How original. “In an hour. I’ll be there.”
Matt walked off forgetting the package. Suddenly, remembering it, he returned and snatched it off the counter.
“In an hour. I’ll be there.”
What a rube, I thought as I watched Matthew disappear into the mall. I twitched. The prickle was gone. Strange how that feeling came and went with this guy. Strange? There was something in the air — other than Christmas carols and retail and shoppers and ugly, neon purple ties. I felt a spark of eventuality — those instances in life when fate transcends the folding of sweaters and games in the jacket rack. I am a child of Christmas, ever since I opened that long ago long-box with the ironing board and thanked flaky Viv for the best gift in the whole wide world. However, with the departure of the prickle, time seemed to fold on me — something kindling, echoing over the counter, trailing like fishing line to some indiscernible point at sea. I still wasn’t certain whether this over-the-counter encounter was a gift from Santa. The ironing board still might have been better, but the sea ebbs and flows, and I was drifting. If I was a child of Christmas, then why did it feel like the Fourth of July?
Chapter Three
Old World Coffee
I was not generally a clock-watcher, but I was that day. I shuffled through seven or eight more sales, and then decided that my shift was up. My relief had shown up early and I took advantage of him. He came to sort out the register and when he turned around, I was gone — not as much as a Christmas card. If there were adjustments to be made, we’d do it on that madness called “the day-after Christmas sales bonanza.” Whatever. I grabbed my coat and kit and scurried out into the bright neon of Eatontown Mall. Suddenly, a thought crossed my mind. What if this urban cowboy was just pulling my chain? It had happened before. I’d be pissed. But why? The world didn’t turn on his balmy eyes. Yet, it had been some time since I had dumped Arturo and, being wary of the next crop of pick-ups from The Cavern, it had been a dry spell. It was Christmas, after all. I saw the Ties and Tux shop on the right hand rise. Old World Coffee would be coming up soon.
Old World Coffee was a sweet affair with a European-style bistro jutting out into the mall — a perfect place for sitting alone and watching the countenances of those about us. Alone was sometimes good. I liked my space, but Old World Coffee was also a great place for cruising men or whatever floats your boat. In the cowboy’s case, it was a place to fidget and pace. I saw him at once — his distress and impatience. He fumbled with an iced coffee as he watched every person that passed by. I was relieved. He was anxious to find me. I bet he saw a dozen possibilities, but there was just no one like me in this mall or any other. I’m not vain, but I have a particular presence that takes the stage. Whenever I managed to land a solo with the Jersey Gay Sparrows, the audience was entranced long before I opened my mouth and treated them to my glorious tenor voice. No, not vain at all.
“Thank God,” he stammered.
I swung into the bistro and took my place with my usual presence and flare.
“I’m right on time.”
“You didn’t really say, what time.”
He sat, his head bowed, but his eyes peering up — an odd position giving him the glam of servitude. I wasn’t sure I liked that. It might have served Uriah Heep well, but it was all too fussy for the coffee ceremonial.
“I said, in an hour.”
“You did, but . . . my watch stopped.”
Now that seemed like a lie, or an excuse for starting on a bad foot.
“Well, I’m here now. I had a big sale at the end of my shift.” Since we were lying, what the hell.
“Another purple tie?” Matt asked.
“No,” I said. “Yours was my biggest sale of the day. Are you finished your coffee, already?”
Matt sipped through the straw.
“Actually,” he drawled. “I’ve had two cups and one of these icy things.”
“You’ll be pissing razor blades. I’ve had my quota of coffee for the day, so I’m going to get one of those big fucking chocolate chip cookies.”
Matt hesitated, and then hopped over to the counter. This gave me a chance to size him up from the back, something I really didn’t get a chance to do earlier. I liked what I saw. I just wished he wasn’t so fidgety. He tapped on the cookie counter, and rocked on his feet. I felt like getting up and anchoring him. I didn’t understand why he was so nervous. Surely, this wasn’t his first time fishing in the mall for a beautiful trout like me. I mean, this sort of thing is Gay Pick-up 1.1, taught in Miss Pearly Bottoms fifth grade faggot class. I sighed thinking that I might have picked up another loser. The fidgeting could be more than just the coffee. I watched carefully to see if he scratched — a sure sign of a heroin addict. I wasn’t going to hang around a druggie tonight, especially at Christmas when the only dust should be Tinkerbelle’s.
He returned, cookie in hand, held out to me like a votive candle. He smiled nervously. I grasped the chocolate chip host and took it between my fingers. He stared at me, never blinking. It made me nervous, so I broke the cookie and offered him half, which he took, gobbling it in two bites. Hungry dude, and now with an additional caffeine jolt, he might just bounce around the mall. I ate my half more lady-like, not as Viv taught me, but as Miss Julie Andrews would.
Where to begin? We just couldn’t sit there over the empty iced coffee cup and crumbs, and make google eyes at each other. I reached into my conversation log, and not far from the surface, mind you.
“Matt,” I said, with a Cheshire grin, not beguiling, but certainly breaking the ice. “Do you cruise the Mall often?”
“Cruise?”
“You know, search for human companionship.”
“Never,” he said. “What kind of person do you think I am? I’m not some easy guy starving for something better than a cookie.”
He sounded offended, but the truth was the truth. If he weren’t cruising, then just what definition would he place upon his conduct? It was cruising by every definition I knew, Miss Pearly Bottoms and all that. I tried to rescue the comment.
“Well, maybe you’re not easy. But you cruised me for at least a half-hour, with all the skill of seasoned hunter. Then, you came and babbled all that crap about never having done this before.”
“Well, I haven’t. I come to the Mall to shop.”
“I bet you do.”
“No, really,” he protested. “I’ve seen good looking men in the mall before, but I never had an interest, or at least the courage to further an acquaintance.”
“Further an acquaintance?” I said. “I like that. I really like the way you talk. What do you do? Are you into the writing arts?”
“No. Computers.”
“Computers? Really?”
I had little interest in computers. They were just a toy you played Pac Man on, and I hadn’t the inclination. However, I knew a money job when I heard one. They don’t want to know ya, but take something away. How mercenary Viv had inclined me. I shook my head hoping that her near-cat house morals would flee to the parking lot.
“I work at Axum Labs,” Matt continued. “I’m a researcher. I also write code for PCs.”
“PCs. I’d like to get one of those,” I lied. Where would I put it? All those fucking wires would need dusting. “They’re hot. My friend Russ has a Commodore. He’s got this flight simulator game, he plays for hours.” When he wasn’t playing with himself, that is.
“I don’t write game code,” Matt said, as if I was really carrying on an earnest conversation. “I’m mostly into network research. You know — connectivity and packets.”
“Packets? Sounds like interesting work. Have you done it long?”
“Since April. My folks moved up from Texas. My Dad’s a civilian expert for the Air Force at Maguire.”
“Military brat?”
“Something like that. He’s been here a while. I stayed back, finished my schooling and lived like any homeboy should.”
“Homeboy?”
“Houston.”
“I knew you were an urban cowboy. Do you ride those mechanical bulls?”
He swiped his hat off and laughed. I finally saw his hair — a bit mussed from the cap, but jet-black, a mass of sexy curls, a perfect accompaniment to his eyes. I decided then, he could be mainlining silly putty, he would be my date for the night.
“Shoot! I’m no cowboy. I’m a homeboy, from the Melrose.”
“I thought you said, Houston.”
“Melrose is in Houston. It’s the gay homeboy’s real estate.”
“The ghetto.”
“You can call it that, if you want. Yes, call it that.” He smiled. My heart dropped. He was speaking now, and it was like listening to a sparkling quartet by Mozart.
“So your dad got transferred to Jersey and you followed.”
“No. I stayed in Melrose for some time after he left, but there was an opportunity to work at Axum Labs, so I came up here. Work’s good — have my own place here, in town, and the folks are close by — Mom, Dad and sister Mary.”
Sounded like the holy family to me, especially sister Mary. He had a full set and all I had was a manicurist version of Cher, who called me shithead and was glad I wasn’t under foot. I had heard enough. Any more information and I’d puke. I wasn’t about to divulge my life history. He already knew what I did for a living and where. ‘nuff said. However, I ventured one additional query — just out of curiosity.
“So you’re out to your family.”
“Out?” He gave me a quizzical look as if I had been speaking Turkish instead of Faggolish. “You mean, do they know I’m a gay guy?”
He said this with such bravado and so loudly, I winced. I was out and about, but I didn’t want the whole State of New Jersey to know it. One of these sweet shoppers might be carrying a baseball bat or a Lugar. The days of I believe in fairies hadn’t dawned yet, even in the great liberal Northeast.
“Shhh. Yes. No need to go on Public Radio about it.”
He lowered his head and his voice, almost to a whisper.
“They’ve known for an age, and they are mighty fine with it.”
Mighty fine? Wasn’t that a pudding?
“Even sister Mary?”
“Especially my sister. You see, if a homeboy doesn’t have his family, he’s got nothing. When daddy moved away, I was lost.”
“You didn’t have a boyfriend?”
Matt looked askance. I had hit a nerve. Didn’t mean to do it, but he could have just as well asked if I had one, a boyfriend that is, not a nerve. That wouldn’t have even broken a nail.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t men to pry.”
“That’s okay. I’m not just ready to talk about it.”
“So don’t.” I finished my cookie, and then farted about looking for the next words out of Dodge. “So, what does a homeboy do for fun on a cold, wintry night in New Jersey?”
“Actually,” he said. “I haven’t had too much fun since I’ve been here.”
“How depressing. So you came to the mall looking for an expert in matching ties to customer’s tastes and fancy.”
“To a career boy,” Matt remarked.
“Now, Mr. PC programmer, don’t you mock retail.” I tried to mime his drawl. It sounded a bit like a Brooklyn knock-off of Mae West. “Where else can you fart and fuss over Yves St Laurent without having to buy him? The clientele can be real frustrating and the management a sack of shit, but every once in a while an angel face comes along and invites me . . . to have a cup of coffee.”
“But you’re not even drinking the coffee,” Matt said, not unkindly.
“No, we’re shopping. I’m in the market for eyes today.” He stared at me again and I was pinned like a butterfly. “And . . . that’s what I got. A pair of eyes in a size ten shoe.”
“Twelve.”
My young heart went Titanic.
“Oh, honey,” I said. “Go to twelve and a half and I’ll forget the eyes altogether and well be in the market for BVDs. So, you are in retail, after all.”
He chuckled. It was a sonorous chuckle — drawled even. Nice match for my Ave Maria voice.
“You’re funny,” he said. “You make me laugh. I need to laugh.”
“At Christmas time, we all need to laugh. What we need is a visit to my friend Russell.”
“Russell?”
I pointed to Tux and Ties.
“In there, the queenliest queen you’ve ever met. Makes me look like Joe Namath. A real hoot, and . . . my best friend. C’mon.”
“Well, I don’t know. I was thinking just you and me could . . .”
“Of course. But we need a venue. Nothing’s done in a vacuum, except the carpeting. Let’s see what Russ’ got planned for tonight.”
Matt slid into gloom.
“Now, you don’t need to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“Oh, I want to go have some fun. I like fun, but . . . I mean . . . I don’t even know your last name. I know nothing about you.”
“What’s there to know? Are you writing my autobiography or are you spinning me around your size twelve shoes? If we like each other then, I’ll tell you everything from my cradle roots to the time I sold you that purple tie.”
Suddenly, my heart hitched. He had bought that tie for a special friend. Now perhaps that was the rub, but I didn’t want to know. I pulled him up from the table.
“So what’ll it be?”
He sighed, but then smiled, his hat re-registered over his raven curls.
“Tux and Ties,” he said. “Lead on.”
“This time only,” I said. “I generally don’t lead.”
We scooted out of the bistro, the ceremonial concluded. We were on to the more developed portion of the dance card. Suddenly, I turned to him.
“Powers,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“My last name. It’s Powers.”
He laughed.
“Kieler,” he barked, his hand outstretched for a good ole homeboy shake.
I grasped it, although upon hearing his last name, I could only think one thing: Ruby.
Chapter Four
Christmas in The Cavern
1
Tux and Ties proved to be a quiet cove, since few weddings and proms take place at Christmas. However, I knew that next week would bustle as New Year’s proved to be a better stimulus for formal wear. Still, Russ found something to keep him busy; a customer with a size thirteen shoe, Holy Mother of God. I dragged Matt in through the casements and called for assistance. The place appeared abandoned, but I knew better. I spied four legs behind the curtain to the dressing room. Russ was taking measurements as only he could. I cleared my throat, but to no avail. Matt appeared embarrassed, but did chuckle. He slouched on the glass case, constantly gazing back out to the mall.
Finally, I announced in a loud voice, “Anyone see a fruitcake? I’ve seemed to have lost my fruitcake.”
The curtain swished open, the customer adjusting his pants and my friend Russ pouting like Butterfly McQueen.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Fancy dress ball?” I asked.
“No,” said the customer. He was a looker, every bit his shoe size. He had soft tawny curls and was a head taller than Russ. “A little private party.”
“So I see.”
“No, you don’t,” Russ snapped, striding toward the counter. “But who have we here? The man from the jacket racks.”
Matt fidgeted, blinking his gorgeous eyes. I wanted to smack Russ, but we had come to his haven for the evening’s itinerary, after all. So I accepted a little pay back.
“Russ, this is Matt.”
Russ smiled, and then touched Matt’s hat brim.
“Ride ‘em, cowboy.” He turned to the customer. “And this is . . . what’s your name?”
“Chris,” said the giant — a gentle enough looking giant. He’d be a great bookmark in the club later.
I reached for Chris’ hand — a massive hand, and as I did Russ winked.
“I’m Martin.”
“Good name,” Chris said. I blinked.
“So,” I said, resolved that introductions were complete. “Are we off to The Cavern, or is your private party drifting into the back room?”
“Don’t be silly,” Russ snapped. “Business is business. I’ll just finish these measurements and I’ll meet you there in an hour.” He glanced at Chris, who grinned. “Maybe two.”
Matt was halfway to the door. I didn’t think he cared too much for Russ. My flighty sister was an acquired taste, after all. To know him was to love him . . . simple soul that . . . well, there has only been one Russ amongst us, thank God. Where would we find another?
I didn’t want to lose Matt’s interest, so I bid Russ and Mr. Thirteen-inch shoe a farewell, and then headed for the parking lot. Matt drove a Ford Cherokee (go figure) and he followed my piece of shit Honda Civic to Long Branch. My little heart went pittipat, but I was trying to keep myself in gear. Every time I peeked through the rear view mirror, I expected to see something other than a blue Cherokee and a cowboy hat. However, he stayed the course.
Dusk closed in, and even more so. It felt like snow. I didn’t mind. It had been a mild winter so far — cold, but nothing more than rain. I loved a white Christmas, especially if I was getting a Christmas present — a vacuum broom. What did you think I meant? Still, I kept myself in rein. We’d park the cars near my apartment and go directly to The Cavern. If my cowboy — from Houston — why no, ma’am; from Melrose — the queers and steers ghetto — if he wandered off with another filly or proved to be a bad drunk, I’d save myself a holiday headache, although I had plenty of Motrin. Who knows? Perhaps he could sing. I would soon find out as the Jersey Gay Sparrows would be roosting at The Cavern tonight to warble a pink version of an ersatz Christmas concert — a few carols and a Chanukah melody. I had a solo.
I parked in my usual spot facing toward the beach, and then immediately directed Matt to the visitor’s lot across the street. It’s funny how we do things by rote, so much so they become lost in a haze of more important memories. However, I recall the precise logistics of that first date, for that was what this was. First dates were always awkward. Did he adjust his hair and hat before turning off the engine? Did he lock the doors? Did he hesitate before crossing the street? And, most important, did he take my hand or did he shuffle beside me down the street? In fact, Matthew Kieler didn’t hesitate, nor did he straighten his hair and hat or lock the truck door. He just strode to my side, and then rocked awaiting my directions. So I hooked myself on his arm and moved him along the street to The Cavern’s entrance. He only said one thing as we moseyed along. I’ll never forget it.
“This place must be pretty in summer.”
And I thought, do you mean to stay around and find out?
2
The Cavern usually didn’t awake until eleven or nearer to midnight, but it was Christmas, so the regulars were already there and in a festive mood. Extra activities tonight — a leather Santa and a subset of us Jersey Sparrows and the Monmouth contingency of the Errata Erastes Choir, our local Lesbian warblers (or grunters — whatever your perspective). So The Cavern percolated early that evening. I remember it well — Teddy Fitz manning the bar, his rippling muscles shining under the flashing Budweiser sign, and Gus the Bouncer, not collecting the cover charge yet, which didn’t kick in until eight o’clock. He was a burly bear, but as tender as a teddy, but not like Teddy Fitz, who was everyone’s sweetheart — the bearer of the sweet liquid ambrosia a la tap and shaker. The cute busboy Nick was on duty and that hotty — what’s his name . . . Scott or . . . Steve — something with an S. He was sizzling, but quiet — a memorable sight nonetheless. I can still see him in my mind’s eye, even though he’s passed beyond the shadow. Then there was Bobby, the waiter — eyes filled with magnetic trouble, everyone caught in his trace.
The bar was bellied with the beach bums — Sam, Kurt and Mother. They weren’t really bums, but they always seemed to be at the bar from the time I entered to the time I left — never failing. Mother was the oldest specimen of drag queen to my acquaintance. He must have been seventy and I would love to spin his story, if it were known. However, it was a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Mother, with his sagging falsies, shabby feather boa and askew lipstick was a fixture at The Cavern — as ubiquitous as the barstools.
The Cavern was unique. Thinking about it, years before the fire that razed it to rubble, the place had three huge rooms — a front bar, a dance floor (actually two dance floors) and a back bar. The back bar opened onto a volleyball court, where in summer we could watch the players volley in their all-together. In winter, the court was a vacancy between the back bar and the shack. The shack had yet another bar — more intimate and the place for pick-ups.
The Cavern was just that. The walls and ceiling were tan stucco, sculptured into stalagmites. The floor, except the dance areas, was uneven and gravelly. Bruce Q., the owner and a real queer StarWars geek, was inspired by the outpost bar on Mos Eisley. I often imagined Luke Skywalker and Hans Solo drifting in from the beach in search of the Millennium Falcon. The room was hung with a variety of rubbery and plastic cave creatures. The most fascinating was a thing Bruce Q. called the Zippilin, a cross between a bat and a cat. He had it rigged on a cable and, every once in a while, the thing would go sailing over the dance floor and yap like a Zippilin, however a Zippilin yapped. Scared the crap out of new visitors. The veterans just howled.
When I pulled Matt into The Cavern, no one was dancing. No one dared, even though Carlos, the DJ, spun platters. No one dared trip over the dance floor before the bewitching hour, when Donna Summer blared over the two eight foot speakers. I waved to Teddy Fitz and to Sam and Kurt, and then presented Matt to Mother. Matt was withdrawn, but that didn’t discourage me. As the Christmas elves spread the spirit, I believed he would come to life. He was a product of a gay ghetto after all — Melrose.
“Mother,” I said. “May I introduce you to my friend, Matt?”
Mother’s face broke into a clownish smile. She raised her tattered begloved hand for my caress. Matt looked away — nerves bubbling. Drag queens might have been his discomfort zone — at least seventy-year-old chicken-boned crones like Mother. I learned that some gay men shunned drag queens, perhaps sensing their own inner Ethel Merman wanting to pop out and sing That’s Entertainment. This reaction was not unique.
“Matt?” I nudged.
“Glad to meet you, Miss.”
“It’s Mother,” croaked The Cavern’s icon. “Make yourself at home. Mi casa is su casa.”
Mother had somehow made the place her own over the years, the poor dear. I knew she would launch into a history of Long Branch and the good old days when the boardwalk stood proud over the gay community, who frolicked under it. However, Matt already drifting away. I nodded to Mother, and then nudged Matt along the bar.