The Future Won't Be Long

by Jarett Kobek

  The DJ played an old song. For the first time in Baby’s life, he listened to the verses: Some boys take a beautiful girl / and hide her away from the rest of the world / I want to be the one to walk in the sun.

  Willfully misinterpreting the lyrics, Baby imagined the vocalist to be in possession of a superhuman ability that allowed her to walk on the sun’s molten nuclear surface.

  —Baaaaaabyyyy, cried Michael Alig. What do you have on? You don’t look very fabulous!

  Alig was wearing a bikini mail-ordered from 1965. His face was painted with bright yellow makeup.

  —I don’t feel very fabulous, said Baby. California broke my heart.

  —Jesus Christ, said Michael Alig. You’re such a drag! Did you come here just to be depressed? I thought girls wanted to have fun!

  He gave Baby a pill.

  —Here, take this, he said. It’s pink, it’s fabulous!

  —What is it? asked Baby.

  —Who cares? It’s mother’s little helper!

  Baby swallowed the pill, chalky like uncoated aspirin, sticking in his throat on its way toward his stomach.

  —I see some people who really matter, said Michael Alig. People who aren’t glum glusses! I’ll check in with you after the drug takes effect, Baby girl, and we’ll see if you aren’t a little less sour.

  People filtered in, the music played louder. Baby stood by the railings. A girl came over, smiling and saying hello. He couldn’t remember if he knew her. He looked at her for a moment too long.

  —Have we met? he asked.

  —We haven’t talked, she said, but I’m in your philosophy class.

  —Oh, said Baby. Yes. Yes, you sit in front. I always sit in back.

  —Why are you here? she asked. Don’t you have school in a few hours?

  —Don’t you?

  —Sure, she said. But I’m a bad student. I’m destined to fail.

  Her name was Regina. In the clubs, she preferred Queen Rex, a nom de guerre bestowed upon her by Michael Alig. She told Baby about Cave Canem, the name of which was Latin for “Beware of the Dog.” A decade earlier, the building was a famous gay bathhouse, its interior done up like a tropical paradise. City officials shut it down during the dark days when they believed that AIDS was a transmittable cancer. The new owner, Hayne Suthon, from New Orleans, had convinced her family to buy the building. The premise being that stewardship of a restaurant would curb Suthon’s wild nature and transform her into an upstanding citizen. Such dreams were short lived. Hayne filled the pool with water and let Michael Alig promote parties.

  —How do you know Michael? asked Queen Rex.

  —We met a while back, said Baby.

  —Why haven’t I seen you around?

  —I’ve been out of town. How do you know Michael?

  —I’m one of his club kids, said Queen Rex.

  —What the hell is a club kid? asked Baby.

  —Didn’t you see the story in New York? Michael made the cover. We’re all his puppets. Where’ve you been?

  —Los Angeles, said Baby.

  —Gag, gag, and triple gag, said Queen Rex.

  Queen Rex convinced Baby that they should dance. During the second song, an uptempo track about sex, the drugs took hold. People never looked so beautiful. Music never sounded as good. The bathhouse walls radiated remarkable light.

  More people filtered in, a different crowd. Outrageous people who kept shouting out Michael! Michael! Michael! Through the waving limbs of the dance floor, Baby saw these people surround Alig, as if he were Christ and they his disciples. He really must be famous now, Baby thought. Why the hell did he return my call?

  Queen Rex hugged Baby. Baby hugged back, a clean hug, an easy clean hug.

  The music and the lights and the Roman walls came together in an overwhelming burst. Baby felt happy that he’d come to Cave Cavem, that Michael Alig invited him. Very happy indeed to meet Queen Rex. Or Regina. Whichever. Would he call her Regina at school? He supposed that he would.

  People stripped off their clothes and jumped into the pool. Ghost images trailed before Baby. He knew it was the drug, but he also imagined that it was a psychic resonance of the bathhouse days, that these people splashing against each other, screaming, with dirty water the only barrier between their embraces, all of this worked as an erotic sorcery summoning up the ghost of Old New York, of the days when men fucked freely without fear, of a time when his sexuality wasn’t being equated with death.

  —Why, he asked Queen Rex, are they doing this?

  —People need to do something, said Queen Rex.

  —But aren’t they worried? he asked. Aren’t they worried about AIDS?

  —No one has sex anymore, said Queen Rex. Sex is so passé. It’s everything but. I’m going in the pool. Are you coming in?

  —Maybe in a minute, said Baby.

  Queen Rex stripped out of her odd leather costume. She jumped into the water. Her hands ran over a man’s body. A couple grinded against each other. Baby stood three feet away, brain spurting neurons, intoxicated by his lack of concern. The ’80s are the decade of fear, he thought. But the ’80s are almost over. Is this what the ’90s are going to be like? Drugged-out people almost fucking in dirty swimming pools?

  —Baby! shouted a voice beside him.

  Michael Alig. The bikini top off, hair and skin soaking. Makeup smeared down his face.

  —Baby, said Michael Alig, what kind of bitch comes to a person’s pool party and then refuses to get wet?

  —I’m a rabid dog, said Baby. I’m afraid of water. I’m that kind of bitch. Cave canem.

  —That’s so hilarious, said Michael Alig, because I’m famously rabid and I’m not afraid of anything.

  Michael Alig tackled Baby. As they plunged into the lukewarm liquid, Baby wanted to be angry, attempted to will himself toward rage, but it was like a wall in his brain blocked the chemical receptors responsible for negative emotions. He wasn’t angry. He was happy, happy at being touched and happy with the liquid, happy that his clothes were soaking wet, happy that Michael Alig was trying to push his head under water, happy that people were cheering and touching him.

  —Who am I? he yelled above the splashing water.

  —You’re Baby Baby Baby, someone said. You’re a rabid dog. Now bark like one!

  And Baby barked, grabbing the body of a sweet man beside him, this slick-skinned, waterlogged Adonis of the Lower East Side. They kissed and Baby’s head exploded with waves of pleasure coming off the tongue, his body attuned to nothing but this moment, like his erection was the only constant in an ever-changing universe, a holy erection akin to those housed by the pantaloons of Walt Whitman in the month of March in the year 1855, like Baby’d journeyed to the fifth dimension and looked down at time, like his atomic particulars were not newly configured but had always been from the Big Bang at the beginning, pressed against this man, in this pool, in this city, with beautiful humanity around him, listening to this terrible song that was the best song ever recorded, don’t stand in the corner waiting for the chance, make your own music, start your own dance, that was the only song ever recorded.

  —Oh please, whispered Baby into the wet mouth of this Greek divinity, never let it stop. Never ever let it stop.

  *

  Then there was the time when Michael Alig and Michael Musto, the gossip columnist for the Village Voice, attended the 1988 Dark Shadows Festival at the Vista International Hotel, beneath the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center.

  When the dust settled, Michael Alig phoned Baby, furious with Musto, who’d scored full green room access and left Alig among the common attendees, the actual scum. Most of who were incredibly ugly and disgusting. Fat old hairy men and women who hadn’t considered personal style in decades.

  —And if you can believe it, said Alig, Musto wormed his way to Jonathan Frid! They had themselves a
nice fucking little lunch!

  —Who’s Jonathan Frid? asked Baby.

  —What are we even talking about? Don’t you know anything? He’s the actor that played Barnabas Collins!

  Weeks earlier, Michael Musto had visited Tunnel, going around asking club kids questions about the history of Western Civilization. Who was Homer? Who is Richard Nixon? Who was Nietzsche? Who wrote War and Peace? Who’s the Vice President? Most people couldn’t answer. This didn’t surprise Baby. He’d spent enough time around Alig’s misfits to realize that their candles did not burn with the brightest flames.

  With Michael Alig watching, Musto asked Baby about Baudelaire. Baby spoke about the French poet at some length, faking off the jacket copy he’d read on a translation of Les Fleurs du Mal.

  —You know, said Baby, Baudelaire’s fine and everything, but honestly? I prefer Rimbaud.

  Baby hunted down the next installment of the Voice, desperate to read Musto’s column, which appeared under the title of “La Dolce Musto.” The writer dedicated two inches to his impromptu pop quizzes, critiquing the Downtown resurgence, suggesting that it was staged by New York’s lesser minds. There was no mention of Baby’s discourse on French symbolism.

  Michael Alig read the same column and telephoned, shrieking into Baby’s ear —Do you see? Do you see what he’s like? He’s the stingiest AIDS case in all of New York!

  The point of clubbing, or, rather, one of its points, was to be noticed by Michael Musto, to be registered by the living barometer of city life. Musto aped the vamping style of classic columnists like Hedda Hopper but subverted the genre through an intense queerification, giving as much focus to the denizens of the demimonde as he did to genuine celebrities. Queens like Lady Bunny and LaHoma van Zandt received treatment equal to that of Marlon Brando and Madonna.

  Musto had taken note of Alig on several occasions, the latter’s name appearing alongside Burt Reynolds and Jack Nicholson. In print, who could say which person was more important? Everyone was bolded. Everyone mattered.

  —Who’s Barnabas Collins? asked Baby.

  —He’s only the fucking vampire! shouted Michael Alig. He’s the whole fucking point of the fucking show! No one’s watching Dark Shadows in 1988 for fucking Quentin Collins, are they? Why don’t you ever listen?

  Whenever he talked with Michael Alig, Baby focused not on the words being said but on their hidden meanings. Baby parsed every vocal inflection, every shift of mood, aching and hungry to solve the great mystery. Why is Michael paying attention to me? I’m a nobody. The whole city lies at his feet.

  Then there was the time when Alig revealed that he’d grown up in Indiana, in South Bend. That city was significantly larger than Baby’s Podunk little town, but the two bore more resemblance to one another than either did to New York. Both men were products of that great nothingness known as the American Middle West.

  Michael Alig escaped the gravitational pull of South Bend by enrolling in the architecture program at Fordham University. He dropped out soon into his first semester, entranced by the lure of club culture, picking up work as a busboy at Danceteria. The rest was history.

  —Okay, said Baby. He’s the vampire.

  Alig hung up, still fuming.

  The next Tuesday, Baby picked up the newest Voice. Michael Musto dedicated half of his column to the Dark Shadows Festival. He wrote about intimate chats with the stars. Of lunch with Jonathan Frid, there was no mention.

  Musto wrote not a word about Michael Alig. Baby imagined his friend poring over the column, burning with outrage, looking for a soul upon whom to vent his spleen.

  I hope it isn’t me, thought Baby. I hope he calls Magenta.

  *

  Then there was the time when Queen Rex and Baby took a cab to the Chelsea Hotel, with the intent of visiting a queen named Christina.

  —Do you actually know Christina? asked Queen Rex.

  —I went to her birthday party at Tunnel, said Baby.

  —She’s crazy, said Queen Rex. But strangely sweet. I like her. Don’t mention the birthday party.

  Queen Rex buzzed their way into the Chelsea. Baby kept up with her stride, denying himself the opportunity to examine the artwork that covered every inch of the lobby’s walls. Queen Rex talked to the desk clerk sitting behind a glass enclosure.

  —We’re here to see Christina, she said. Room 323.

  —Sure, said the clerk. Just take the elevator.

  Queen Rex knocked on Christina’s door. Baby wondered why he’d asked to come to the Hotel Chelsea at 11:57 pm on a Wednesday. They had class in the morning.

  Regina never cared about class, which was a great mystery, considering her precarious relationship with the university.

  In the beginning, Regina had come on aristocratic, treating NYU like an institution unworthy of her serious consideration, as if school were just another experience into which she’d stumbled, like she was an upper-class twit from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wretched early work. This illusion was maintained for some while, delicately balanced within the rooms of Baby’s memory palace until it toppled beneath the accumulation of too many stray facts and inconsistencies.

  For instance: Regina said that she lived uptown. Everyone assumed this meant the Upper West Side, but once she let slip that she lived in Washington Heights. For instance: the New York accent breaking through her controlled voice, on occasion axing youse a question. For instance: she talked about her high school in a manner that made it sound like an expensive private school, but Baby read a New York Times article describing Midwood as one of the city’s elite public schools. For instance: her clothes were always two seasons old, a style which everyone believed intentional until Brandywine remarked that she’d never seen Regina in anything new.

  Baby axed Regina to tell him the truth. She admitted that she was paying for NYU through a mixture of student loans and wages earned waitressing at Primola. Baby couldn’t understand. I’m the one who’s been given everything, thought Baby, so why’s she throwing it all away?

  From behind the door, a muffled voice:

  —O, yes.

  Locks twisted and unlatched. The door opened, revealing Christina, long blonde wig, tight blue minidress, torn stockings. Mere description of her attire conveys no sense of the main event, of Christina’s ravaged body. Her bloated face buried beneath an excess of lipstick and mascara, her huge gut straining at the fabric, the too-visible hint of testicles, her broken teeth, her watery yellow eyes that barely opened.

  —O, O, O, Regina, is that you?

  —Hi, Christina, said Queen Rex. I wanted you to meet my friend, Baby.

  —O, O, isn’t he delightful? Isn’t he something that you could just eat, really?

  Christina’s accent was an affectation, the world’s least convincing German accent, the voice long and drawn out in an ultra-masculine bass. Baby’d met a lot of queens, their voices ranging the entire spectrum, but never one who sounded anything like Christina.

  —Isn’t Christina’s apartment beautiful? asked Queen Rex.

  Baby could think of many words for the clutter and debris that filled the one-room suite. He would not have chosen beautiful.

  —Yes, said Baby, it’s lovely.

  —O, O, O, did I tell you about the woman who lives above me? She is an electronic insect, really, you know, is a creature from another world. O, O. Do you want something to drink, Baby? I mean, really?

  Christina hobbled to the kitchen, limping on her left leg, carrying a black cane.

  —O, O, Baby, said Christina. Come here and get your alcohol.

  She handed him a dirty mug bearing the word OPIUM in gilded letters. Queen Rex stood next to an electronic keyboard synthesizer, looking at paintings hung on the walls.

  —You’ve got to see these, said Queen Rex. They’re all so wonderful. Did you do all of these yourself, Christina?

  —I
mean, really, Regina, someone has to do them, don’t they?

  The signifier of the mug helped Baby conclude that Christina was a queen with a heroin problem. The slurred speech, the non sequiturs, the jaundiced eyes, the disregard for physical appearance, the algebra of need.

  Her paintings were executed with skill, demonstrating an ease of line that one would not expect from a drug addict faking a broad Teutonic accent on the third floor of the Chelsea Hotel. Each image featured an idealized depiction of the artist. In one, Christina looked like an ingénue of the 1950s, clad in a long black dress. In another, she’d rendered a simple line drawing of herself reclining on the sidewalk outside of the Chelsea Hotel.

  Her best canvas re-created the label of Beefeater gin. Instead of the Yeoman Warder, Christina had drawn herself in full fantastic drag before the Tower of London. Baby’d seen this one before, hanging on a wall in the basement of Tunnel. At her birthday party.

  —This is wonderful, said Baby. I love the wit.

  —O, O, O, O. Is my favorite gin, really. O, O. Have you been to London? It’s full of wretched people, you know, and the world would be a better place if the Nazis bombed them into nothing.

  Christina’s television, in the middle of the room, was turned on its side. The black-and-white image ran against the vertical orientation. No sound emerged from its speaker, but the image played on, blue gray and snowy, set to Channel 13, showing images of the Brooklyn Bridge.

  —O, O, O, isn’t the television hilarious? Is actually, well, I’ll explain it to you soon. Is actually about the way in which we are all disgraced, and the bridge is pointing to the left now, you know, really.

  Baby moved a few fashion magazines off a metal chair and sat down. Long ago, he’d mastered the art of wielding his drink like a shield. With careful observation of a dialogue’s participants, and with maintenance of proper beverage placement at key moments, he could spend an entire evening without saying a thing.

  Baby inspected a milk-white vinyl record hanging on the wall. NICO. BEHIND THE IRON CURTAIN. Christina had drawn herself on its label.