At Dale’s behest, Adrian had stayed home to watch clips of classical performances for the hour or so it had taken him to go plan this evening’s outing. Adrian had preferred to tag along, but Dale insisted he should watch the videos and then read the reviews and comments to see how people analyzed it. When he’d reminded Dale he had his old plagiarized papers to model, Dale had rapped him on the forehead and admonished him for being lazy and clueless.
“Think, Chambers! You need to show some originality and evidence of your own voice. You wrote a few of your own papers in the beginning, right?” Adrian nodded. “Figured. That’s how he can tell when you cheat. Someone else’s voice is in your papers. You need to figure out what you’d say and how to say it. The clips will help you with both. I’ll still write the paper, but I need your voice to guide me.”
Dale had been right. Reading what other viewers thought and the debates sparked by those comments helped him figure out how he could approach an analysis. If forced to do it on his own, he’d still write a crappy paper, but at least the thoughts would be his. That’s why Dale was going to write an outline of key points he would touch on in his analysis, things Adrian should focus on during the performance, though he’d not catch all the pertinent clues.
“Theme is a biggy, Adrian. What’s the piece trying to say? That’s the meat of your paper. That’s what you want to be able to explain should your professor ask you.”
“How the hell am I supposed to decipher the message from a bunch of instruments? That’s like asking me to unravel a code in some ancient foreign language.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll choose something more modern. It’ll be like analyzing the merits of a play in Elizabethan English.”
Adrian hunched his shoulders in confusion and put on a strained face. “Elizabethan What?”
“Shakespeare.”
“Oh Christ! Just kill me now.”
Dale had laughed and assured him that he would survive. After much cajoling and promising, he’d run off to do his errands, first threatening to unleash on Adrian every gay tendency he reined in should Adrian shirk his task.
Adrian had flipped him the bird, yet completed the task without further objection. He was still sitting at the counter, scribbling notes on a legal pad, when Dale burst in and tossed a shopping bag in his lap.
“Get ready, maestro.”
Adrian reflected on the events with a smile. Dale was not like anyone he’d met before. Boastful and often annoying, yet endearing and generous. Pete came close, but unlike Dale, Pete rarely annoyed him. Dale, on the other hand, could get under his skin with just a glance. He hated to admit it, but he and Dale were like school kids teasing each other on the playground, daring each other to kiss a frog and then squealing “cooties, cooties!” as they ran in circles around each other.
Afraid to stop and catch cooties.
Afraid to catch feelings.
Adrian pressed his hand against his chest and inspected the muscles he’d built up. He was a strong and formidable man, but even The Incredible Hulk had weaknesses. He trailed his hand down to his obliques and pinched the flaps of skin through his compression gear. A reminder that beneath the facade, he was an ordinary, tame guy.
“I’m a regular ol’ Bruce Banner,” he whispered. “But no one understands me. No one except—”
Dale banged on the bathroom door. “Come on, Romeo! Stop jerking off. Uber’s waiting downstairs.”
Adrian sighed. Time to put his armor back on. He smiled, flung open the door and pushed Dale out of the way.
“Let’s go, slowpoke!” called Adrian behind him.
ADRIAN SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY in his seat.
“Art, Dale? Really? If I don’t know anything about music or Shakespeare, why in the hell do you think I’ll know anything about interpretive art?”
“Interpretive dance. No wonder you’re failing the class.”
“Not yet,” reminded Adrian. “You’re writing the paper, aren’t you? From my notes and rough draft, right?”
“Don’t worry.”
“Fuck man, my tuition is on the line. Promise me you’ll write a good paper.”
Dale assured him he would write a good paper. “But you should pay attention to the performance, too. This way, if your teacher suspects you cheated and asks you to prove yourself, you’ll be able to recount it. You won’t have to fake it. If you can explain what you saw, your teacher is less prone to suspect plagiarism.”
“Maybe just don’t try to ace it,” reasoned Adrian with wry deprecation of both himself and Dale. “Dumb it down a bit.”
“Oh, it’ll be plenty dumb,” said Dale. “I’m no expert here. So don’t set your hopes too high,” he warned as they neared the theater. “This isn’t going to be a master essay on music and dance appreciation. I didn’t get into the performance scene until my first crush roped me into it.”
“Why so?” wondered Adrian. He surprised himself by showing genuine interest in Dale’s history. Yesterday his impulse would have been to inject into his voice a note of boredom sure to cripple Dale’s ego.
Now he realized Dale had managed to make Adrian see him in a kinder light than their time on the field. He didn't care to admit a deeper truth—that it wasn't the past day, but the entire season of banter that had warmed him up to Dale. That he had felt a kinship to Dale that neither Pete nor Rudy could emulate in full. A connection that had scared him because Dale was gay and deep down, Adrian was . . . what? A homophobe?
No, of course not. So why are you resisting the fucking friendship? Can’t get much friendlier than fucking a horny couple beside each other. Stop being a douchebag, Chambers!
Adrian forced himself to focus on Dale, who seemed unaware that his attention had drifted. He was looking out into the night and sharing something in the most wistful tone Adrian had ever heard from him. Whatever Adrian had missed, he knew they were no longer talking about his paper.
Dale continued, “Jules hated baseball. Any sport. He was the kind of guy that jocks called fag or sissy on the regular. You know: thin, fashionable, a tad effeminate.” Adrian cleared his throat. “Okay, a flaming queen. Yet, he was always there to support me on the field. So I felt I owed it to him to show some appreciation for his interests.”
He smiled at Adrian. “Kind of like how you took pity on me and agreed to this pseudo-date.” His hand reached out and hovered above Adrian’s as if contemplating an affection grasp. But then it fell back into his lap and he turned to the dark, passing streets.
“Jules, he was a musical genius. He was going to be a composer. Still will be, I suppose. Of course, I listened to music, too. But hard rock: Zeppelin, Metallica, Alice in Chains. He loved opera.”
Adrian nodded yet hesitated to interrupt the reverie. But when nothing more came after a moment, he pressed him.
“Like?” asked Adrian. The slow response made him wonder if Dale were reliving the moment in his mind on an old-fashioned projector reel. And was it a joyous film or tear-jerker?
“I never learned to distinguish opera singers because I hated it,” confessed Dale. “Performance art is what I got into. We’d go to the theatre whenever there was a music show. Almost every other weekend.
“The first time Jules dragged me to a local performance it was rather disappointing. A student dance troupe was touring the region as part of their thesis or whatever. They were talented, but you could tell they were novices without real experience. Most of them kind of stumbled through the routine like it was a paint-by-numbers. Envision a group of teens mouthing the beats so that they don’t forget the choreography. I’m exaggerating again, but you get the point. They lacked the confidence that comes from nailing hundreds of live performances. So he took me to a professional show in the city.”
“And?”
Dale swiveled and flashed an emphatic grin. He didn’t look like a gay jock that played baseball anymore. Adrian could see the glimmer of the eager boy he must have been a few years ago, still a novice himself and not accustomed to
being the frontrunner. He could see in Dale the boy he must have been before packing on lean muscle and training at sports: A geek. A gay geek, at that, easily excitable and unable to play it cool. A social misfit before the perhaps hundreds of intramural performances that boosted his confidence enough to become the unflappable gay man he was today.
“It blew me away!” exclaimed Dale. His hand flew to the side of his face as he mimicked a bomb detonating. He dropped it haphazardly, and it landed on Adrian’s thigh. Adrian didn’t move his leg. Nor did Dale move his hand.
“That performance triggered something in me. My inner gay, I guess. I even thought about making it a career, so I minored in music.”
“Why not major in it?” asked Adrian.
“Honestly, I was super attracted to the idea of being close to the guys who played sports. I felt more like them than Jules, if you know what I mean."
"Masculine," murmured Adrian. "Almost straight."
Dale nodded. "I belonged there. I wanted to be like them. So I decided to study sports nutrition.”
“And become a baseball star,” teased Adrian. “As far from gay as possible.”
“No,” protested Dale. “I wasn’t trying to distance myself from being gay. I’m proud to be gay,” he added with conviction. “Maybe not then, while I was friends with Jules—we never dated—but I like to think I was still discovering myself. I wasn’t like Jules anymore. If I ever had been.”
“Were you embarrassed by Jules? Did you end the friendship? Because he was effeminate?”
Without answering, Dale turned to gaze out the window and Adrian did the same. He figured reminiscing about Jules had torn open a wound. If Dale needed silence, that was fine with him. He didn’t want to hear much more about Dale’s crush, anyway. Hearing the ardor in Dale’s voice aroused the jealous pang that lie dormant in his chest, awaiting to be woke for the dumbest if reasons.
Soon the car pulled up to a building that looked like an old, renovated row home. It was pretty nondescript to be such a famous theatre as Dale suggested. But according to him, it was a landmark with a renowned history for African-Americans. Famous actors, directors, and singers had started here. Many still returned here to perform, often free or at reduced cost so that the residents of the poorer inner-city neighborhoods could enjoy it as much as the affluent patrons that came in droves from the suburbs or other cities.
“This place—you’ll see. Like nothing you have ever experienced.”
Adrian paid the Uber driver while Dale went to buy tickets from the box office (a little window off to the side of the theatre entrance, where it seemed the stairs here led to an actual home). By the time Adrian was beside Dale, the front door usher had ripped their tickets in half and was handing the stubs back to Dale.
“This place used to be a mansion. Looks small on the outside, but stretches for miles inside.”
“Miles, huh?” said Adrian dryly. “Boys must be very disappointed when they see the size of your dick. Twelve inches my ass!”
Dale laughed. “Okay, I exaggerated a bit—about the theatre. My cock, though—”
“Shut up, Dale.”
Adrian pushed Dale ahead and smirked when he stumbled on the plush, maroon carpet in the vestibule. Even though it wasn’t enormous, it was wide and long. People were milling about as they waited for the stage doors to open. Having recovered from his graceless entrance, Dale was already at the doors and motioning him along.
The ornate fixtures and chandeliers mesmerized Adrian. Not to mention the sheer diversity of people wearing gowns and suits while others wore jeans and blazers, and casual dresses. He even spotted guys in sneakers, like him! He didn’t feel the least discomfort in this crowd. No one was staring at him as if he were from the Twilight Zone.
His gaze wandered around the room and came to rest on his companion, beckoning with a discreet wave and nod of his head to hurry up. He ambled over and followed Dale into a cool room, like walking out of the summer sun into an underground cavern.
Adrian gaped in awe. The room was dark and calm, yet not quiet, for music played at a soft decibel that encouraged people to enjoy each other’s company without the need to raise their voices.
The area in front of the stage was spacious and organized with tables occupied by couples eating or talking in hushed tones.
Some couples, both gay and straight, stood without so much as an inch parting them, swaying in rhythm to the husky crooning of a singer he didn’t recognize. The bass voice urged “let’s get it on,” which, by the looks of ardor and ecstasy in some of the faces around him, was bound to happen sooner than later.
Dale sidled up beside Adrian, beaming with pride, and a told-you-so smirk on his face. “This ain’t nothing. Just the beginning, my friend. Come on.”
He led them through rows of tables and stopped at a small alcove, where stood an usher that seemed to be waiting for them. He wished them good evening and led the way up a narrow staircase that opened onto a small balcony decorated in even deeper, subdued hues of navy blue, purple, and violet. Only a few tables were set here, all more spaciously set apart and adorned by candles which cast flickering shadows and enough light to gaze at your partner across from you without intruding on the guests nearby. The room had an undeniable romantic vibe and a soul of its own. It was like a different world altogether.
Adrian gazed with wonder at this new world that Dale had brought him to. A strange yet comforting sensation spread throughout his chest. He sighed and then scowled at how easily impressed he was by something so simple. Arranged by a gay man, at that. But he pushed the negative thoughts to the back of his mind and tried to relax. No one else had ever shown this type of interest in him, even if it was just part of an elaborate scheme. He didn’t want to ruin it.
The attendant led them to a single table in the middle of the room with two chairs centered for a perfect, unobstructed view of the stage. Covering the table was a sparkling white sheet in contrast with the subdued hues surrounding them. Two champagne flutes tucked with cloth napkins guarded a bottle of champagne chilling inside a bucket of ice. Candles lit by invisible hands flickered to life.
How did Dale pull this off?
As soon as they settled down, the attendant produced a menu and stood discreetly aside while they discussed the meal options. Without being beckoned, he seemed to know when they were ready and reappeared like a ghostly apparition. And just as stealthily, he left them to their thoughts and conversation.
Below them the stage was empty. No props, no setting. He wondered how good could the performance be if it was done bare of anything besides the performers. Where were the theatrics going to come from?
The joyous, hushed voices and suppressed laughter of the other diners carried up and eased his mind. They seemed unperturbed by the lack of props and behaved as if this wasn’t their first rodeo. If they could enjoy themselves, he could too. There was nothing around to disturb his serenity.
Dale opened the champagne and filled their glasses. He was regarding Adrian with querulous, narrowed eyes and the corners of his mouth pursed.
“What?” asked Adrian. He brushed imaginary things away from his face, his neck, his chest. He was unused to this type of scrutiny, which was not the lustful longing Dale sometimes displayed, but a sort of admiration. Like affection.
“Nothing,” answered Dale and lifted his glass. “To an amazing experience. To your first time.”
Adrian lifted his glass and clinked it against Dale’s. The tingle reverberated through the flute and up his arm, reminding him of the warm sensation that had spread throughout his torso and calmed him like a swaddled baby. It was the first time he had ever felt that sensation with someone other than his mother. That security born from knowing you are loved, cared for, and protected.
“To first times,” he echoed.
He wondered if this would be a night of many firsts.
Chapter 13: The Performance
Dinner and time passed without hurry. Despite Dale’s caref
ree behavior as if two former adversaries sharing a romantic dinner was a normal thing, Adrian had been a bit awkward as he struggled to overcome the disquieting reminders that he was on a date with a guy. Yet, he had to admit to himself that the experience was pleasant and soothing.
For some inexplicable reason, he and Dale seemed to be courting a bond that Adrian never thought he’d share with a guy. Not even with his best friends. Of course, two bottles of champagne and a bottle of white wine had him feeling all types of sensations, none of which were disagreeable. Just new.
Dale had done most of the talking while Adrian listened to his ramblings. He tried not to focus on how Dale’s full, pink lips stretched wide and his teeth glistened whenever he laughed. Or how his blue eyes spoke volumes during those quiet moments when neither of them could find words amid a sudden, intimate lull broken only by juvenile jokes about masculinity and sexual prowess.
When the usher informed them the show was about to start, Adrian had felt both relief and disappointment that dinner—the date part of the evening—was ending.
Now the table was clear (save for another bottle of wine) and the theatre dark. Not a sound intruded on the silence as the audience waited with bated breath. Not a cough, not a shuffle, not a whisper. Not even the sounds of silence thrust upon one by nature invaded the auditorium.
Even the blackness was at its darkest pitch. It lasted for what felt like an interminable length, surrounded by all that unnatural silence. Adrian cleared his throat and it sounded like a shotgun blast to his hears: loud and startling.
He leaned over to whisper to Dale, “You’re gonna have to tell me what’s happening. I won’t understand a single thing if you don’t.”
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