Gay Place

by Billy Lee Brammer

  He smiled, and then said: “Talk to those people up there for me, will you? They’ll believe you. You obviously got no guile …”

  Then he was gone, through the main room with an extravagant wave toward the others, striding down the driveway to his limousine. Neil stood at the door and watched him go.

  It should have been John Tom, he thought. John Tom would have been far more successful at this business — he could have been the epic poet-politician, with a knowing, no-nonsense approach to how things were and how they ought to be and a compensating awareness of the terrible underpinnings of the system that supported them. He never took himself too seriously, and yet he had been one of the few serious persons he had ever known. A very Good Doctor. He had made a speech to a bunch of them one night at one of the parties in the big spanishy house across town, standing there, lecturing them, the vitality coming to him as all of Neil’s began to drain away: “Bums, hacks, medicine show evangelists …” he said. “Liberals! You’re all hysterical Tories at heart — Wobblies playing the bond market. Simpering, powdered old pros from Flitville — worrying about bad breath and lip hair while the world caves in. Go ahead! Get right with your Zen-Buddha! Walk softly and carry a goddam badminton racquet …”

  The trouble was, they had no stomach for it — John Tom’s awful compulsion to look at reality — they could not bear to watch for too long a time. Stanley still carried a little of it with him; it was what he called his mixed tones. But all the others couldn’t possibly stare the truly monstrous in the face …

  The afternoon wore on. Stanley and the girl went out for a ride in the hills. Andrea and her parents sat talking about a summer trip to Taos or Acapulco. Neil talked incessantly on the phone and stood around waiting for the children to come awake. When they finally wandered down the stairs, cross and perspiring, he attempted to engage them in conversation. But it was about as brittle and meaningless as cocktail party patter, and they soon grew bored with him and followed their grandmother outside to chase insects.

  Toward evening, Stanley returned with Elsie and began transferring his luggage from one car to the other. Neil stuffed clothes in his bag upstairs. Andrea brought him some freshly laundered shirts. They sat quietly, talking about the house and the children and their personal finances, trying obliquely to recapture a little of the magic that had just barely passed them by earlier in the afternoon. Clouds gathered and a noisy rain began to fall.

  “Perhaps the flights will be canceled,” she said.

  “We’ll have to go out and wait, in any event.”

  There was one last phone call. The pretty little girl who had accompanied them on the flight down wanted to know if he would like a ride back the following morning. He told her no, wanting desperately to stay one last evening with Andrea and the children but certain at the same time there would be her parents and possibly one last unavoidable party getting in the way. It could get a lot worse, he thought, before it got any better. The girl’s singsong voice droned on interminably, rising and falling. Listen, he wanted to tell her, Listen … Quit trying to be something you’ve invented. Forget about your Village parties and your folk dancing and those contrived plans to romance with Negroes and Senators and misunderstood artists. Get out of those goddam bulky skirts and those awful quarter-heel shoes … Put your hair up sometime; get it out of your face. Quit chewing your nails and take a bath every night and keep your underwear laundered. Ease off all that posturing and wait for something really genuine to happen.

  He told her thanks-very-much and give-his-best-to-her-father and have-a-good-trip-back.

  Then he left the phone off the hook and got his bags from upstairs, kissed his children and left a twenty-dollar bill in an envelope for Fat Emma the maid. It had been like a weekend with friends in some gay country house spooked by forgotten assignations. They loaded the bags in the back of the car and drove slowly through the gleaming streets toward the airport.

  They stood on the ramp, rain falling all around, rattling the shed above their heads. Andrea watched Stanley and the girl talking and then bending toward each other to kiss. She wavered a moment, looking up at Neil who seemed either half asleep or in a mild state of shock. She put her arm through his and their shoulders touched lightly and finally they were able to turn their faces to each other and kiss. They mumbled insane, insensible goodbyes and then Neil and Stanley made a run for the plane. The folding stairway swallowed them up and the big motors began to groan. She and Elsie looked at each other glumly and turned to leave. Her name came across the public address — there was a number to call. She dialed the number from a booth and Kermit’s voice shrieked at her.

  “Hey, Miss Lady, where’s that car of mine? Old Jake and I are out here at your digs, and somebody’s split with my heap.”

  She told him what had happened with his car. He found this unimaginably funny.

  “It’s the gas gauge, Miss Lady. I never think to look. Listen — old Jake and I are giving a little party tonight at my new Renaissance Gallery and we got absolutely to have you with us …”

  She began to feel a little better and promised to meet them there for a drink.

  Nineteen

  HE SAT IN THE huge leather chair, head back, hands clasping armrests, spine brushing somebody’s Great Seal, spinning round slowly, unobtrusively, in ponderous half circles, following the debate, the dark voices, the magpie deliberations that filled the fluted chamber. Lights, faces, shone above his head — the voices raged on below and around him. Occasionally, he read from a pamphlet. He wheezed a little song under his breath, tapping his foot: You feet’s too big … Don’ wawncha ’cause you feet’s too big … Mad atcha ’cause you feet’s too big … Ah really hate ya cause —

  (The United States Senate meets in a Chamber of quiet dignity and rich tradition. Details of the renovated Chamber are much like the original, but every effort has been made to make this one a model of perfection in lighting, acoustics, comfort and convenience …)

  He wondered how long. The voices seemed to fade, droning, like slave minstrels, like fraternity serenades, rising and falling.

  He banged on the big desk and mumbled some-some-sumpin’ … “will be in order …”

  If he weren’t, he thought, stuck up there on the throne and forced to rule, he could have slipped inside the cloakroom for a drink. That was where the others were — he could hear their occasional laughter through the swinging doors. Could he risk a vodka? Right out here in the open? A watered vodka with a couple ice cubes. Who would know?

  I’d try it, he thought, I’d try so hard, like she said. You do what you have to do, mah boy — and Gov’nahr Ah just have to have a watered vodka. The Very Junior Senator needs relief. What the hell is this? Pledgeship or something? Where’d all those other Juniors go?

  Am no presiding officer.

  Wasn’t meant to be.

  I’m the goddam Prince! An easy tool.

  You Pro-Tern there or you Mister Leader — hey fellas! — get me down off here, look in that back room and round up some more Juniors. Doan wawncha cause you feet’s too big. … Where was Stanley? Where was old Stanley, my old Junior? Out counting returns? He was supposed to be back — he was definitely supposed (after the mail was signed, the office locked tight) … definitely supposed to be back here to — There he is, raht above mah head, up there with that lovely dark girl with the hair that smelt so good last evening. Knew you’d make it, boy. Happy you could bring a friend. She hasn’t changed much — your girl, yours and mine — still pushing the myth of herself: black-eyed and unlipsticked with that batch of hair pulled over the little ear that might have been sculpted right out of creamery butter. Hey, Stanley you lump! Git down heah and fetch youah Massah a vodka-water. With a handful of that little lady’s hair to paste over my heart. Can’t seem to catch his eye. Got hers — not his — got hers, we’re exchanging looks in this great gilded chamber. All this quiet dignity … rich tradition … Get me a pint of Quiet Dignity, kid … hundred proof.


  (… Senators elected to America’s highest legislative body conduct their part of the Nation’s affairs against a background of cream and dark-red marble, gold silk damask walls and the rich gleam of mahogany desks …)

  Well it is — it certainly is, gentlemen. That’s gold silk damask if I ever saw gold silk damask, and it goes real pretty next to that little girl’s rich mahogany face up there and I’ll stake my reputation on that. Soon’s I’m legally elected to this highest legislative body. Hey Stanley! Get me some returns. Don’t just sit there rubbing bums with that girl — push the clock up, close the polls, stuff a ballot box. Gimmie a vote and a vodka and a deep-froze butterfly for my children. Give a little attention, for God’s sake, to your presiding officer …

  (… As President of the Senate, the Vice-President sits behind the mahogany desk on a rostrum at the north of the Senate floor …)

  Well, now. This the north side, is it? Something to tell my grandchildren, my children’s children … Girls … you won’t believe this, but … your granddad used to keep the Vice-President’s chair warm. Warm as could be.

  (… Framing the Vice-President’s rostrum is a background of red Levanto marble pilasters centered by a heavy blue velvet drape embellished with a gold embroidered border …)

  Now what in hell’s a pilaster? Let’s see here … let me just … There. Structurally a pier but architecturally a column. So. So? Sounds phony to me, but those draperies are definitely blue — they got that right. Now … if I can just go get myself pilastered —

  (Directly behind the Vice-President himself is a huge, silk American flag …)

  Roger. But where’s Himself and why don’t he come back here and give me some relief. Goddam Republicans …

  (… The motto E Pluribus Unum … is carved in Hauteville cream marble above the rostrum …)

  Take their word for it. I turned round to look, somebody might pass a bill or call a quorum or clear the calendar and then where’d I be? Examining Hauteville cream marble, that’s where. So they ought to get me down off here before I let our Doomed Republic slip right through my fingers. Ten parliamentarians couldn’t help … Where’s that party? Those party? What’s doing at the Embassies? Lost track with these night sessions. Excuse me, Countess — thought that was my wife I was goosing …

  (… here sit the official reporters of all proceedings … During a spirited debate these reporters have to move from place to place, taking notes while they walk or find a seat near the Senators engaged in the discussion …)

  All right, Official Reporters of All Proceedings! Get up off your rusties! Don’t you know a spirited debate when you hear one? What was it that fellow said earlier? About these parlous times? My constituents, Mr. President, are pissing Strontium 90. Well now I wonder if in putting the facts together or the statement together that my distinguished and dear friend just made (his feet’s too big), in what I think is rather a partisan manner, he has considered a few points of interest, among which is the fact that I happen to be of a generation that was permitted — and was proud to do so — to serve some time in the service of my country, during which time our generation — which is now the succeeding generation — and you, my friend, are, of course, talking about another generation — is the generation that made no profit from the war — and was proud to do so — and, well, my friend, my high-spirited friend …

  (… desks are modified replicas of those used in the Old Senate Chambers; a few are originals brought to the new Chamber in 1859. Two historic desks still serving today’s Senators are those once used by Daniel Webster and Jefferson Davis. A small block of wood inlaid on the left side of Davis’s desk marks the spot where a Union officer reportedly thrust his sword …)

  Now let’s not deal in hearsay or histrionics, gentlemen. Either the Union officer did or he didn’t and. …

  (… Two tiny snuff boxes of black lacquer, adorned with Japanese figures, rest on marble ledges flanking the rostrum. They are kept filled with snuff, and, though never used, they remain a tradition of the Senate …)

  Never used? My God we’ll call in the Hoover Commission! Waste, duplication, bureaucracy … And how about that other? That Japanese stuff. Foreign imports, unfair competition — wait’ll the Tariff Commission hears …

  (… Another custom carried over to the Senate today is blotting sand …)

  Blotting sand? And who was it got the contract for that? Billions for defense, I say, but not one more red cent for blotting sand. And I say — and I think all reasonable men will join with me in saying — Up in Harlem … Table for two … They was four of us … Me … Your big feet … And you — join me in saying, in asking, in demanding … unanimous consent to take me down off this rostrum framed by red Levanto marble pilasters. Let me withdraw from this glittering world of gold damask and Hauteville cream marble. I remember a time we withdrew, for all of two weeks one spring when the azalea bloomed along the back fence of that little house and Andrea had that little miscarriage. Of Justice. Missed that goddam carriage house, lost it somewhere between the patch of heather and the flowerless turf …

  (… Beyond the Lobby is the Marble Room, a private chamber for reading and consultation. The entire interior of this comfortably furnished room is of various hues of marble. Two large, gold-framed mirrors placed at each end reflect and re-reflect the room’s magnificent crystal chandelier and create an illusion of endless halls and countless chandeliers …)

  Well! Give a cheer! Home at last with my misplaced illusions, my endless halls, my chandeliers. Ready for some reading and consultation. Thought the time would never come — those fellows out there, they don’t understand, never had to meet a payroll. But now I’m here, what’s a Very Junior Senator to do? Belt a whiskey from a paper cup? Hah do, hah do … Hah do, Senter, hah do … All my betters. I could place a call on the long distance and (make it a conference call, Operator) talk with Andrea and (failing at that?) all my other friends, three-quarter million of ’em, just back from votin’ their conscience. Ought to explain how awfully nice it is to be here, folks, and I appreciate the great mandate you give me. Only what in hell was it now? Seems to slip my mind. I could do that, place that little call, or maybe check the supper clubs to see what’s doin’ in town, deciding between Paul Desmond and Lefty Frizzell …

  He stood staring at the others. The older men moved past, smiling, pausing to inquire about the early returns, clapping him on the shoulder and moving on. He examined news ticker bulletins, but it was too early to tell … primary elections in the South … tantamount to election … only token Republican opposition expected in November … near-record turnouts …

  Stanley and Elsie waited for him at the entrance, standing in the vaulted reception room (… east end of the Lobby, where visitors may consult their Senators … outstanding example of the artistry of Brumidi … beautiful frescoes and murals by the Italian artist …). They walked into the hallway and waited for the elevator. Outside, it was nearly dark, and the Air Force band was playing in an open space in front. They paused, listening to the music for a few moments, and then caught a cab to the hotel, brass and bass drum fading as they rolled along.

  There was a huge crowd present, spread through the suites of rooms. A cry of approval went up when he entered, and he worked his way round the room, shaking hands, the beaming faces, young and middle-aged, faintly awed, grinning their confidence. They talked about the campaign for half an hour. He stood there with an oversized drink in his hand, making the words come, nodding, tilting his head, grinning back. All kinds of faces floated past: housewives, lobbyists, displaced provincials, soldier boys, people from other staffs, union agents, Negroes (extra-warm handshake, clap ’em on the back, had to avoid ’em during campaign), old pols, Mexican bandits. After half an hour he slid away through the crowd and found an empty bedroom where he lay down and fell immediately to sleep, thinking about news tickers and pilaster columns and somebody’s feet bein’ too big. Stanley woke him with the report about the very early returns — only a
few counties reporting, most of them incomplete. He blinked his eyes in the bedside light, squinting at the figures.

  “Slight lead, hah?”

  “Holds the trend, be more than slight,” Stanley said.

  Elsie came in to say the Governor was on the telephone. He lifted the receiver and said hello.

  “Feelin’ better?” Fenstemaker’s voice was like a cannon in his ear.

  “Not especially,” Neil said. “I’d hesitate to make a victory speech on the basis of —”

  “What’ve you got? What’s the count you got?”

  Neil told him, reading from the report Stanley had received.

  “Hell! Goddam and hell! No wonder! I’ve got a real tally for you — been receivin’ reports from my county men last two hours. They’re way ahead of that election bureau. Listen to this — you got fifty thousand on him up to now, with two hunnerd thousand cast and reports from most of the counties. You like that? Listen — that’s a real trend. That knocks ’em in the goddam plexus. It’ll hold even when old Edwards’ snuff dippers are still tryin’ to stuff boxes out in the boondocks …”

  He told Stanley and Elsie. They went to tell the others. He talked with Fenstemaker several minutes more and then rang off. He could hear Stanley reading the report in the other room and the great whoop of pleasure going up as the figures were chalked on a blackboard. There was some singing and a demand that he come make a speech. He put this off until the next report from Fenstemaker, letting Stanley take the figures from Jay McGown, and when it was an obvious runaway — so far outdistancing Edwards that opposition campaign managers were conceding even before Edwards himself gave in — when his election to the Senate was unmistakable, only then did he come out front and make the speech. They clapped and howled for more, but he moved inside while the friends began passing whiskey bottles back and forth and organizing a snake dance through the suite of rooms. He sat on the side of the bed and tried to get Andrea on the long distance.