Simple Simon

by William Poe

  The men at Dan Tana’s all looked like gigolo tennis instructors to my eyes. I wasn’t attracted to any of them. Time had arrested my tastes, closeted as they were. I still wanted Tony, if not Ernie, and looked for them in the faces of the men I met.

  Scott downed a shot of slivovitz, poured another, and threw it back just as fast. When he saw that my drink remained untouched, he picked it up and put the rim to my lips.

  “Come on, open up.”

  I pushed the glass away, so Scott drank it himself. The more intoxicated he became, the more brazenly he leaned against me, his lips sometimes touching my ear as he spoke. When Scott felt the inside of my thigh, I went to the washroom to escape. Several of the men at the bar had been eyeing us disapprovingly, and I didn’t want to get clobbered again.

  “What do you think of that one?” Scott muttered in my ear the moment I returned to my seat.

  “One, what?” I said.

  “That number, right there.”

  I lowered Scott’s arm when he pointed. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

  “Come on, Simon,” Scott said. “I know you’re not like Joseph. That was obvious last night.”

  “I don’t remember last night,” I admitted.

  I was going to probe for details when Scott blurted out, “What about that guy?”

  “Okay, I’ll play.” I was desperate for Scott to calm down. “He’s not my type.”

  Sandra came over, grabbed our shirtsleeves, and took us both outside. “Don’t get me eighty-sixed,” she said. “Behave yourselves, like you promised.”

  “Aw, go back to your tennis fucks,” Scott said meanly. “Simon’n me’ll find our own fun. Come on, Simon.”

  “Fine,” Sandra snapped. “Just don’t come back here tonight.”

  Scott and I started walking down the street as Sandra returned to the bar.

  “Where now?” I asked.

  “Numbers,” Scott said, trying not to stagger when a police car drove past. “They got real numbers at Numbers.”

  After a ten-minute walk, we arrived at a restaurant-bar that literally had digits stenciled onto its mirrored walls. Scott took a booth under the number 69.

  “I’m so glad you’re queer,” Scott said.

  My head jerked around at his statement.

  “Joseph was a nice guy, but that need for pussy…” Scott shuddered as he spoke the word. “You got cash, don’t you?” Scott asked, scanning the room for possibilities. “We’ll get a couple of boys and head to your place.” The idea made him fidget with excitement.

  Maybe it was my sudden and total emersion in Hollywood culture—so removed from religious pretense—but Scott’s suggestion made perfect sense.

  It took only five minutes for Scott to find two young men willing to come to our table. One was a short, slim blond, the other a tall guy with the physique of a quarterback. The blond scooted beside me and, within seconds, put his hand on my thigh.

  “You’re not a cop, are you?” he asked.

  “And you’re not an angel come to arrest me, are you?”

  “Well?” he insisted, unsatisfied with my response.

  “No, I’m not a cop.”

  “Prove it.” The young man took my hand. I had not realized that, after sitting down, he unzipped his fly and exposed himself.

  When my hand felt him, an unseen fist punched me in the stomach.

  “Let me out of here!” I screamed, pushing the fellow aside and running toward the washroom. I made it to the toilet just as vomit burned into my esophagus.

  Scott came to check on me. “I should have introduced you to Hollywood more slowly,” he said, remarkably sober all of a sudden. “Let’s call a taxi and get you to the hotel.”

  We abandoned the blond and the quarterback.

  At the hotel, Scott walked with me down the path to the bungalow. My stomach continued to feel queasy, and my legs provided unsteady support, not as much from drinking as from spiritual debility.

  “But, uh,” Scott began when we reached the door, “I am pretty broke. How about that cash you were going to use? The guy I was with said he’d wait a while, but I won’t have any luck without money.”

  I took five twenties from my wallet and handed them to Scott. When he left, I took a picture of Father from my wallet and tried to pray. Though convinced that Sun Myung Moon was a mere human, some part of me still believed that God was using him in some way. I tried to repent, but it was no use. As Hamlet’s uncle knew, “Words without thoughts never to heaven go.”

  The next day, instead of making an appearance at Maury’s office, I got up late and telephoned from the restaurant while I ate breakfast. A lawyer I didn’t know picked up the phone and put me through.

  “Simon, didn’t the hotel give you my message?” Maury asked.

  When the waiter brought the phone to my table, I hadn’t noticed the folded card with my name on it. I opened it to read Maury’s message.

  “Our tickets are reserved,” Maury said. “We leave in a couple of hours. First stop, Ottawa. We’ll meet a Japanese translator there who works for the Canadian government. Then we’re off to Boston to see a professor at Harvard. And finally, Pittsburgh, to interview a scholar who translates Japanese novels into English.”

  “Maury, you’re making me dizzy. Slow down. Just tell me what terminal. I’ll meet you there.”

  Maury gave me the flight details. I took a shower and shaved, packed my few belongings, and checked out of the hotel, determined to get my head together once I was away from Hollywood.

  CHAPTER 34

  Maury secured first-class tickets for our journey. In the spacious seats, we discussed the transcripts and talked about legal strategy. I found it difficult to focus. My mind was at Numbers with the blond hustler.

  “Jet travel affects me like that sometimes,” Maury said, referring to my inattention. “Why don’t you tilt the seat back and take a nap.”

  I did as he suggested. Maury woke me up only once, saying that I had disturbed the passengers around us by talking in my sleep. In a dream, Masako throws open the door to the bungalow and finds me in bed with the blond hustler. She strips naked, revealing the sexless body of a plastic doll. No telling what I had called out in my sleep.

  It was late evening when we arrived in Ottawa. Maury rented a car and drove us to a downtown hotel. As soon as our things were in the rooms, he said he had a surprise for me.

  Maury was familiar with Ottawa from family visits as a young man. His Cajun roots traced to a specific migration out of Quebec, where he still had distant relatives. He drove us through streets freshly plowed after a recent snow. Eventually, we pulled in front of a restaurant.

  “Reservations are hard to come by at this place,” Maury said excitedly. “They have the best French cuisine in all of Canada.”

  I smiled weakly. For me, this was yet another battle for dominance between Dionysus and Apollo.

  Our table was near an ornate indoor fountain. Maury ordered a bottle of expensive bordeaux. I drank three glasses, barely hesitating between them. After the first, I tried to imagine Masako enjoying the evening with me. Finishing the second, I felt the blond at Numbers throbbing in my hand. After the third glass, nothing mattered.

  “A fine wine should be sipped,” Maury advised. “Let me guide you through the good life for a few days. No one needs to know about it.”

  Evidently, Sandra and Scott had been true to their promise not to mention anything to Maury about our nights on the town. And I supposed that Maury didn’t consider me as vulnerable as Joseph. After cautioning Sandra and Scott, here he was, plying me with alcohol.

  “You don’t have to be a monk around me,” Maury said.

  The wine had loosened him up as well. I began to wonder who had corrupted Joseph first—the seductive S’s (Scott and Sandra) or Maury himself.

  Maury paused for a sip of wine, then said, “You’re protected on this trip. The telephone psychics I represent say that my aura is like a shield.”

 
“Psychics,” I muttered.

  Maury told me the next morning that I had enjoyed the food, all seven courses of it. But the last thing I remembered was the fifth glass of wine. I had evidently told Maury all about my ignominious hanged ancestor. Aunt Opal had figured into the conversation. Seems I had described finding the cornhusk doll and treating the standing liberty quarter as a talisman. Maury had heard far stranger tales growing up in New Orleans.

  The meeting in Ottawa went well. The woman we interviewed agreed that the grand jury translator had not been competent and that Mitsui’s answers were not responsive to the English questions. She signed an affidavit to that effect and offered to testify—if her expenses were paid and we met her fee.

  In Boston, the Harvard scholar offered his support—again, an affidavit and a commitment to testify—at a price. Next, we flew to Pittsburgh and had a similar affidavit signed by the translator of novels. Maury felt good about the information we had gathered, and envisioned writing an article for the Law Review.

  Mitsui wanted a report about our progress, so we flew to New York. Maury made a reservation at the Algonquin Hotel. In the taxi, he told me how he’d always wanted to stay there, noting that I was the first client willing to pay for such an extravagance. Maury proved to be intimately familiar with the redoubtable authors who comprised the Algonquin Round Table and rattled off a list of books. Edna Ferber was the only author I recognized, having read the novel Giant while I flew between teams in Texas.

  I planned to stay at the New Yorker, but Maury offered to record a second room on his invoice and claim it was for a consultant. I went along. Why not? I felt more comfortable in Maury’s presence than I did among the Mitsuis, Kawasakis, and Bozemans of the family.

  Maury and I made an appearance at the New Yorker, finding an army of people poring over documents in Mitsui’s office. Mitsui, wearing a wrinkled white shirt and sporting a wispy beard, appeared not to have slept for several days. Although exhausted, he listened intently.

  “The other lawyers should know about this,” Mitsui said once we had presented our findings from the translators.

  Maury nodded in agreement.

  “Has Simon explained the obstacles?” Mitsui asked.

  “You mean the fact that the church has factions?” Maury offered. “Even so, I would hope the American Church lawyers would listen. A strong defense on your behalf strengthens the case for Reverend Moon. The translation issue is significant.”

  Mitsui almost said something in response to Maury’s use of the term American Church, but he let it go. Mitsui didn’t seem hopeful, but he urged Maury to meet with the other lawyers.

  Maury and I set out for the church headquarters, located near Times Square. I had to stop for a moment, as steam from a vent stung my eyes and made me start coughing. As many years as I had been coming to New York for workshops and commanders’ meetings, I still could not get used to the dirty air and the steam rising from the sidewalks. We took the opportunity to buy chestnuts from a street vendor and to warm our hands for a moment over the pan.

  “New York is like Hades,” I joked. “The smell of brimstone and”—I pointed—“hot air rising like smoke from the lake of fire.”

  Maury stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “Even Ottawa wasn’t this cold. Let’s get moving.”

  At the door to headquarters, a brother told us to wait outside for someone who would escort us to see Owen. I showed him my membership card, hoping to go inside to warm up, but it made no difference. The brother said he had orders.

  After a long wait, Carol appeared at the door and challenged, “What do you want?”

  “Maury and I need to speak to Owen,” I said. “Mr. Fender is working on Mitsui’s defense. We want to show him affidavits we’ve collected from experts.”

  “Owen and I work together equally, and neither of us can be bothered right now,” Carol said.

  “Look, Carol,” I insisted, “Mitsui wants us to speak with the other lawyers, but we thought we’d talk to you guys first. I guess we’ll just go directly to their offices.”

  “You won’t be able to do that,” Carol said. “They’ve been warned that you might try something. Go back to fundraising, Simon. That’s where you belong.”

  Carol disappeared into the building. A brother stepped forward to block me when I tried to push through. I was so angry I wanted to punch the guy out, but Maury grabbed my arm.

  “If you think the Unification Church has rivalries,” Maury said as we carefully navigated the icy pavement toward Times Square, “you ought to meet the psychics in that network of telephone advisors I represent.”

  “Psychic rivalries are one thing,” I said. “This is cosmic.”

  Maury patted me on the back. “Don’t be discouraged. Mitsui gave you authority. If necessary, we can file an amicus brief. I have inroads with the National Council of Churches. The IRS will go after their members next if this case is lost. Meanwhile, let’s just take it one step at a time. We have to pace ourselves to preserve sanity.”

  “I don’t have much of that left.”

  “You need some entertainment to distract your mind,” Maury said, reaching into his overcoat and taking out an envelope. “I got tickets for Fidelio at Lincoln Center. A good meal and a night at the opera will do you a world of good.”

  “I’ve never been to the opera,” I said. “But I listened to Wagner when I was a teenager. Wotan and Alberich—seems like a lifetime ago since I’ve thought of them.”

  “Everyone listens to Wagner as a teenager,” Maury laughed. “Now, Beethoven—that is music for adults. You’ll like Fidelio.”

  Before the opera, we ate in the Edwardian Room at the Plaza Hotel. I ordered pheasant under glass and baked alaska for desert—two items I’d seen people get in movies but never thought I’d have the chance to taste. Noticing my troubled expression, Maury assured me that he would conceal the expense among billable hours.

  Whether or not Father was the True Messiah, the thousands of brothers and sisters I had known over the years had made an impression on my heart. Betraying them by living well, even as they survived on fast food, violated everything I wanted to stand for as a person.

  Maury was wrong about Fidelio. I didn’t like it. Soon after the overture, I nodded off, waking long enough to observe the drab set designs and to hear a man behind bars singing a tune that apparently had no melody. When the opera ended, we stopped at a bar near Times Square. Maury introduced me to the liquor called Bénédictine and educated me about its French origins.

  Fortified against the cold, we headed back to the Algonquin. On the way, passing through Times Square, a set of posters in a display window above the Howard Johnson restaurant caught my attention. The advertisements promoted a male strip show at the Lido Club. I’d seen the posters during other trips to New York, but never allowed myself to study them too closely. In this brave new world, with resistance to temptation lowered by alcohol and culinary excess, I considered checking it out and made a mental note of the schedule.

  At the Algonquin, Maury suggested a nightcap and invited me to his room. As we sipped cups of Bailey’s Irish Cream, Maury eyed me suspiciously. “Whatever it is you’re thinking of doing,” he said jovially, “just do it.”

  Satan himself could not have said it better.

  At that hour of the night, I worried about a family member spotting me. Teams from all over the region came to Times Square late at night to sell flowers on the street and to “blitz the bars.” A team often made as much in that last blitz as it had made all day. Approaching Times Square, I didn’t see anyone with flowers. Nonetheless, I tightened the hood of my coat and trudged stealthily to the entrance of the strip club. I felt much like I had the times Darsey snuck me into the Drummers Club in Little Rock when I was underage; only, now, it wasn’t just a man-made law I was preparing to violate.

  Dimly lit stairs led to a ticket booth where a gruff, hairy man sat on a stool behind a glass window. He was shirtless, but wore a leather halter
that crisscrossed his chest. When he spoke, a thick mustache made his voice slushy.

  “Shix bucksh,” the man said, stating the price of admission.

  He motioned me into the theater, which reeked of stale sex and cigarettes. When my eyes adjusted, I found a seat in the back row. Most of the men, none of whom appeared to be younger than fifty, had coats thrown across their laps. A pornographic movie played on the screen, which served as the backdrop to a small stage. A narrow catwalk extended into the first few rows. The porn stars didn’t interest me, and their activities were anything but sexy. How could the heel of a person’s foot, no matter how much Crisco they applied, pass through a man’s anus? When the on-screen actor succeeded, the final thrust of the heel made me literally jump from my seat.

  Darsey and his friends had talked about this sort of thing, often laughing about the pain it caused. Such discussions contributed to my disgust with the idea of being homosexual. I didn’t want to shun intimacy for anonymous, even painful, sex. Ernie saw me, his best friend, as little more than someone to get him off, and that attitude seemed prevalent among the adults I met.

  My love for Tony had been genuine and true. Memories of my night with David were fresh in my mind—despite efforts to purge the experience from memory. I loved Masako, but where was the sexual attraction?

  Musing on the nature of love, I felt stupid having paid to see the gruesome acts depicted on the screen. I stood up to leave.

  Before I made it to the exit, the movie shut off and the stage lights came on. I quickly sat back down, embarrassed to be there in the first place and, in the second place, afraid I might be recognized by another transgressor. The lightbulbs running along the catwalk brightened. Red, blue, and yellow beams darted back and forth across the audience. Along the walls, strips of tinsel added to the tawdry, dance hall atmosphere.

  “First up, Twenty-One-Year-Old Billy,” blared a voice through cracked speakers.

  A disco song played with the quality of a cheap AM radio. Alicia Bridges sang “I Love the Nightlife.” The lyrics began with the words Please don’t talk about love tonight.