A Body to Dye For

by Grant Michaels

  I pulled offhandedly at my own red mustache and sighed loudly. “I wonder what I’m compensating for.”

  Calvin answered quickly. “You should shave it. You might look good.”

  “As opposed to how I look now?”

  Nicole patted my head like an affectionate aunt. “You’ll always be my little dumpling.” I caught the allusion to the twelve or so extra pounds I always seem to be gaining or losing—the “love handles” that, alas, are not used very often.

  Calvin resumed flicking magazine pages noisily. Nicole said, “I’d better get back to my table. I imagine Baroness Kreutzlager’s enamel is dry by now.”

  As she turned to leave us, Calvin moaned plaintively from within his magazine. “Byyye.”

  I echoed his lifeless voice. “Yeah, byyye, Nikki. Why don’t you go play in the acetone?” She responded by blowing me a kiss. I watched her maneuver back through the busy shop on her three-inch heels. Nicole carried her 130 pounds on a five-foot-four-inch frame like a big lithe cat. Her modeling days for Revlon in Paris had ended over twenty years ago, and after that she freely gave in to her love of food and drink. The years of pleasure showed in her thickened waistline, but she’d maintained that runway strut.

  I turned the hair dryer on high and pulled and poked at Calvin’s hair under the blast of heat. I softly whistled an old jingle about loving from the oven while Calvin squirmed in discomfort, but he took it all without a whimper, just like the man he always tried to be.

  Within moments Nicole was coming toward us again, but this time she was escorting someone I’d never seen before, except perhaps in a boyhood dream about cowboy buddies. He was tall, at least six three, with broad shoulders, sandy brown hair, a rugged face lined from too much sun, bright blue eyes, and a smile right off the magazine photo taped inside the lid of my hope chest. But he was real, and I was dazzled. He carried a single leather bag slung over a strong muscular shoulder. Nicole led him through the shop like a prized borzoi.

  Calvin looked up from his magazine. “Here comes my stud now.”

  The word seemed inadequate and crude for the heroic figure who approached my station. “I thought you said he played bottom.” Was that a tremble in my voice?

  “He likes to switch,” said Calvin.

  My kind of man, I thought.

  Nicole arrived in bliss, hanging on to biceps, triceps, and deltoids that challenged the shoulder seams of the young mans blue and red plaid flannel shirt. He smiled at me and I wanted to touch him.

  He introduced himself as Roger Fayerbrock, but the blow-dryer was noisy, and I thought he said Faircock.

  I took Roger’s big warm hand and voiced a breathy “Hi” as my heart thumped.

  He spoke in a rich baritone. “Pleased to meet you.” But over the buzz of the dryer, I thought he said, “I love you, too.” His blue eyes looked me over for a long moment. I felt pudgy as a piglet and wished I’d signed up for that two-for-one special at the aerobics studio. Suddenly my hair was wrong and my mouth tasted like the chicken burrito I’d had for lunch. I was a mess. But his smile told me that he liked me anyway. It was time to turn the blow-dryer off.

  Nicole must have sensed our mutual attraction, and to counter it, she affected her “high Brit” accent and introduced me as Vannos. The odd name seemed to puzzle Roger, so I explained that my real name was Stan but I went by Vannos in the shop. Roger said, “Like a stage name?”

  I nodded. “Exactly.” My mind was already busy with visions of me serving Roger breakfast in bed.

  Calvin glanced at Roger’s leather bag and remarked, “Is that all you’ve got?”

  Roger said simply, “Everything I need is in here.”

  Nicole said, “Everything?”

  “Everything I need for traveling Ma’am.”

  Nicole gasped. “Please call me Nikki!”

  “My mother told me always to be polite to ladies.”

  “Well, Roger, I’m not your mother.”

  “And she ain’t no lady,” I added.

  Nicole glowered at me, then smiled warmly back at Roger. “You don’t have to be polite with me, Roger. In fact, you can say whatever you like, whenever you like.”

  “Brazen hussy!” I hissed. “He could be your youngest son.”

  “Or your oldest nephew!”

  “My sister’s not married.”

  “Neither am I!”

  Roger’s face showed concern as Nicole and I bantered. Calvin looked bored with life, as usual. I said to Roger, “It’s just a friendly little joust. Nicole and I really like each other.”

  Nicole retorted, “Says whom?”

  “Who, dear. Nominative case.”

  “Darling, don’t gloat over the only grammatical nugget you retained from sixth grade.”

  Calvin’s voice whined drearily from within his magazine, interrupting our repartee. “Roger works at Yosemite National Park.” Nicole went, “Ooooooh!” Then she cooed, “That’s in Wyoming, isn’t it?”

  Roger spoke warmly to her. “No, Ma’am.” Nicole wagged a finger at him. He blushed and said, “Oh, sorry, Ma’am. I mean, Nicole.” (That face! I could almost smell rashers of bacon sizzling over a campfire at dawn.)

  Nicole smiled and winked at Roger. He smiled back and said, “Yosemite’s in California.”

  Nicole shrugged. “California … Wyoming. What’s the difference when you’re here right now?” She nestled up to Roger. Meanwhile I imagined him crawling out of our pup tent for two near a secluded mountain lake. Nicole asked him, “How about a little stroll outside while Vannos finishes with your host?”

  “Host?” I said, as the tent collapsed and the campfire went out.

  Calvin piped in, “Didn’t I tell you? It’s the only reason Roger is here now, to pick up the keys. He’s staying with me for the rest of the time he’s in Boston. Aren’t you, Roger?” Roger nodded, but I thought I perceived annoyance in his bright eyes. Calvin continued, “Why should he spend his hard-earned money on a hotel when he can stay in my comfortable downtown condo?”

  “He’ll probably spend something else to stay with you, Calvin.”

  Calvin bristled. “There are no strings attached!”

  Right, Calvin, I thought. Knowing you, ropes is more like it.

  “Roger agreed to stay with me of his own free will. Didn’t you, Roger?”

  Again Roger nodded, almost troubled. Nicole murmured to him, “Honey, if you need a place to park yourself, I got plenty of room.”

  Roger shifted uneasily on his long legs. I got the feeling there was more going on than the “pure spirit in a god’s body” that met the eye, although there was plenty of that, too. His thigh muscles wrestled against the denim of his jeans as he moved his legs. He sounded reluctant when he said, “I’ll get going now. I want to rest a while. I’m still tired from the time change.”

  And probably from the lack of sleep last night, I thought. I had a strong urge to rescue him from Calvin, to take him home and make him feel welcome in my own way. Draw a bath and massage his back and nestle in his big arms. Then in the morning …

  Suddenly he was making motions to leave. He put his hand out to me again and said, “Nice to meet you, Stan.”

  “Same here,” I answered. The guy was Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, and Hopalong Cassidy all rolled into one living, breathing creature. He held my hand longer than was necessary, or polite even, but I didn’t mind. I was enjoying his strong, warm grip. Then I felt the floor shake with a tremor and heard a heavy metallic crash in the alley behind the shop.

  “What was that!” said Nicole.

  “Felt like an earthquake,” said Roger.

  I ran out the back door to see what had happened. The supply-service van, which usually arrived once a week, was lying on its side in the alley. It looked like a fake setup for a television movie. I went to check on the driver just as he emerged from the passenger-side window, using it like a ships hatch.

  “I’m all right!” he said.

  “You sure?”

 
; “Just shook up.”

  “Practicing acrobatics with the truck?” I asked.

  “I’m new on the job. Didn’t see the curb,” he answered sharply. “Must’ve cut my wheels too hard.”

  I saw the tire marks where he’d gone up onto the curb and plowed through the small patch of soil that separated the salon’s back door from the paved alley. Since I tended the grass there, and planted the flowers, and put in a small wrought-iron table and two chairs, I considered the tiny plot my personal domain. Stanley Kraychik, landed gentry with thirty square feet of Boston turf. Now it was ruined.

  He asked, “You got a phone inside I can use?”

  I pointed the way into the shop, and he hurried through the door. I was about to follow him when I smelled two familiar scents: honey-petal shampoo and berry-blossom conditioner. Then I noticed a golden creamy fluid with streaks of red and pink dribbling out through the back door of the capsized van. When I looked through the back window, I saw that the entire cargo of five-gallon plastic barrels of shampoos and conditioners had overturned and was voiding itself into the van and from there, out into the alley. My Boy Scouts conscience said, Do something! So I slid open the vans side door, which was facing skyward, and climbed in.

  Once inside, I began turning the heavy containers upright and resealing their lids, but the van was loaded full of the things, and I couldn’t work fast enough to stop the steady flow of viscous hair-care products. Slippery liquids were filling the cargo area like bilge in a leaky boat. Then I sensed someone above me, and I turned and saw Roger’s face looking down through the open cargo door above my head.

  “Need a hand?” he asked.

  “Two would be even better, but you’d better take off those cowboy boots first.” My own spongy-soled canvas shoes were already squishy wet.

  Roger pulled off his boots, then squeezed himself into the tiny space alongside me in the van. By now the plastic barrels were slippery with shampoo, and grabbing them securely was almost impossible. Finally, the weight of the containers coupled with all the slipperiness won out—I lost my footing and fell into the pool of sweet, fragrant slime. The stuff soaked in immediately, which didn’t surprise me, since hair chemicals are mostly wetting agents and emulsifiers.

  Down on the floor I continued sealing the partially open containers, while Roger somehow maintained his footing. I was breathing hard. “It should reach equilibrium soon … or else we’ll drown in it.”

  Roger laughed. “Don’t worry, we can just climb out.”

  I smirked. “Try it,” I said, pushing another plastic lid tightly back onto its half-empty tub.

  Just to prove himself, he did try, and in a second was down in the pool of shampoo and conditioner with me. He laughed. “I needed a shower anyway,” he said, and pretended to lather himself up with the creamy concoction. With Roger’s strong energetic body moving so vigorously next to mine—well, let’s just say the problem at hand didn’t seem so serious. We sat there like two kids together in a bathtub. All we needed were toy boats and rubber duckies.

  After more slipping and sliding and falling and giggling, we finally stopped the flow of liquids. We stood in the van for a moment, relieved. Roger grinned at me and asked, “Things always get this exciting around here?”

  “This is just the scrub room. You ought to see me in surgery.”

  To get out of the van I gave Roger ten slippery fingers. Once he was out, he pulled me up through the open cargo door. Outside, a few of the shop’s staff members applauded the conclusion of our little drama, then Nicole sent them back into the shop.

  “Are you two all right?” she asked.

  “We’re fine, Nikki. But the patio garden is ruined.”

  Nicole shook her head. “I’ve heard the back alley called a lot of things, but ‘patio garden’ takes the prize.”

  I said, “We’d better rinse this stuff off before we go back in.”

  “I’ll get some towels,” she said, and went inside.

  Roger and I used the hose near my “property” to rinse the soapy goop from each other’s clothes, but quickly discovered it wouldn’t work. We’d have to remove our clothing to rinse off completely, but since we were outside, and it was Boston, we stopped at our skivvies. Roger’s were plain white briefs. And mine? Wouldn’t you know that was the day I wore my zebra-stripe boxer shorts? We caught each other’s gaze, and there was that awkward moment when two people are attracted to each other, yet are still surprised by sudden intimacy.

  Roger’s body was, simply, a strong healthy male body with classically laid planes, curves, and fullnesses. His wet Jockey shorts immodestly revealed all. He was definitely spousal stock, maybe even a contender for Olympus. He spoke first. “You acted fast with those chemicals. Someone else might have let them run out and pollute the environment.”

  I hosed him down without answering. I didn’t want to disillusion him by telling him that all styling chemicals eventually end up in the same place, whether they’re wasted on the street or used in a salon—down the drain.

  He looked me over as I rinsed him off. “You’ve got a nice build.”

  I’m sure my skin blushed even pinker than usual. A body is a gay man’s stock-in-trade. Mines okay but far from perfect. “Thanks,” I said, studying his strong shoulders.

  Then he took the hose and aimed it at me. “You work out?” he asked as I rinsed off.

  “I tried once.”

  “What happened?”

  “When MetroPhysis opened—that’s the hottest gym in town—I went for a free introductory workout. But somehow, even with the hunky trainer showing me how to use the machines, I broke the chains on two of them.”

  Roger laughed. “King Kong!”

  I struck a “mighty gorilla” pose for him, then shook my head. “Not quite,” I said. “They invited me not to join and suggested I take up yoga.”

  “That what you do now?”

  I nodded. “And dance. I prefer timing and balance and motion to anatomical measurements.”

  Roger looked at me warmly and said, “I agree.”

  Nicole arrived with an armful of towels. Our state of near nakedness didn’t seem to phase her at all. In fact, when she handed Roger his towels, she paused and surveyed the muscular terrain of his body with obvious approval. “Don’t catch cold, boys,” she sang as she returned to the shop.

  We dried ourselves in what had once been my peaceful little garden. Roger was certainly at home outdoors! His face glowed in the autumn sunlight streaking down diagonally between the buildings. As he toweled himself, he studied what was left of my miniature horticultural efforts, now ruined by the van’s reckless tire tracks before it had tipped onto its side.

  Roger asked, “Did you do all this?” He indicated a small patch of undestroyed flower bed and the ground cover.

  I nodded sadly and said, “It once bore the distinctive mark of an urban fairy.”

  “I like it.”

  “You ought to see what I can do for a home and a husband.”

  Roger smiled. “Maybe I should.”

  During the quiet seconds that followed, I heard only the faint hum of city traffic muffled by buildings, then the soft flutter of sparrows’ wings as the small birds anticipated their daily portion of brioche crumbs from Saint Stanley of the alleys. “Sorry, kids,” I said. “Not today.”

  Nicole stuck her head out the back door and said, “You boys coming in, or are you taking tea out here?”

  “We’re coming, Nikki.” I quickly fashioned some smaller towels into “bunny booties” for Roger and me. Then we wrapped ourselves in larger towels, gathered our wet clothes, and scuffled back into the shop.

  I heard Calvin yell, “What about my hair?”

  “No problem, Calvin.” I dumped the pile of wet clothes near his chair. Then I set up the infrared lamps around him and turned them on high. “You’re still too damp for me to finish. I’ll be back after I change.”

  Roger got his bag, I got some dry clothes and sneakers out of my loc
ker, then I took him to the changing stalls, which are for customers who prefer to remove their shirts or blouses before putting on a robe. For us, they would be dressing rooms. We spoke over the shoulder-high partition as we put on dry clothes.

  “Roger,” I said, “I don’t understand why you’re with Calvin. If it’s just for a place to stay—”

  “I have my reasons,” he interrupted. His smile had vanished, but his bright eyes looked into mine as he continued. “It’s not what you might think. I’m not attracted to him or anything like that.”

  “You don’t have to explain. I didn’t mean to pry.” (Of course I did!)

  His eyes looked away. “Calvin’s not my type anyway. If I were looking, it would be for someone like you.”

  “Me?” I said stupidly.

  Roger nodded. “I have a good sense of what’s real and what’s an act. Nature does that. And your flighty stuff is just an act. I can tell what’s real underneath it.”

  And I thought I was the psychologist manqué! No one had ever come on to me psychologically before. Usually it was with active verbs, like “I’d like to exfoliate you.” Now here was this guy going beneath the surface immediately. He already appreciated my innermost beautiful self, whoever the hell that was. Me, simple soul that I am, I just wanted Roger’s magnificent body in my arms.

  “I’ve got to finish Calvin,” I said suddenly, breaking the spell. I led us back into the bustling activity of the salon. Calvin was still sitting at my station, but the lamps had been turned off. He looked annoyed. I felt his hair. “Perfect moisture content for finishing,” I said like a knowing master.

  Within seconds Nicole was back with us. “Did you boys finally warm up back there?”

  “Nip it, Nikki.”

  Calvin said dryly, “I hope I’m not in the way, or anything.”

  Roger ignored him and asked me, “Where are my wet clothes?”

  Nicole answered, “I put them in the laundry for a rinse and dry.”

  “I can bring them by later, if you want,” I added hopefully.

  That seemed to please Roger. “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe we can have a drink together then, too.”

  I blurted, “I’d like that!”