Lives of the Circus Animals

by Christopher Bram

  He’d first done his sailor strip to “Sing, Sing, Sing.” He loved the music’s energy but could do that number only once a night. This slow routine could be repeated again and again.

  Toby did not do this strictly for the money. He needed money, but the dancers here got only fifty dollars a dance. They made their real bucks out in the Apollo Room, the theater lounge, where they might pick up another fifty by stepping into a cubicle with a customer, or a few hundred by going home with one. Toby had gone whole hog only once. Sex with a stranger was just ticklish and annoying, like going to the doctor, and creepy afterward when the guy took out his wallet and showed photos of the wife and kids. No, Toby came to the Gaiety chiefly to dance. Dancing made him feel good about himself, cool and tough, handsome and wanted. He did it only once a week—he had a day job at Kinko’s—but once a week was enough. I am not nothing, I am not nothing, I am not nothing.

  He faced the audience with his fly half buttoned. “Make them laugh, make them cry, and make them wait,” Mrs. West had told their drama class in Milwaukee. Now and then some young fag would shout out, “Fuck the tease, man. Show us your dick!” But not tonight.

  He mimed entering a hotel and going upstairs to a bare closet like his room at the Y when he first came to New York. Real images, the teachers at HB Studio said, strong sensory memories. He wanted a bed or chair here, but Tubes said, “No props, kid. This ain’t Lincoln Center.” He undid the kerchief, he lifted the blouse up.

  He wore no undershirt. The song did not last long enough for an undershirt. He wore flip-flops because shoes were too awkward to untie onstage. He would’ve looked good in boots, but he didn’t own any. He wore white socks so there’d be a place to put his tips. Flip-flops looked silly with socks, but the floors here were filthy.

  He stroked his pecs and rubbed his abdominals, pulling the skin taut to show their definition.

  Guys told him he had a nice body, but Toby wished it had more muscle, extra meat to hide his kidness. Yet he loved feeling the static electricity of eyes brushing over his skin. There were only a dozen pairs of eyes tonight, the late show on a Sunday. Nevertheless, these eyes too wanted his body, ached for it. And they couldn’t have it, no matter how badly they begged or how much money they offered. It almost made up for all the times they refused him—at cattle calls, auditions, and tryouts. “You’re too old for the part. You’re too young. You’re too tall, too short, too blond, too bad, thank you.” Nobody ever gave him a second look. He dreamed that one day, one night, one of those directors or casting assistants would come to the Gaiety and hit on him in the lounge. And he could look them up and down and say, “You’re too old, too fat, too ugly. Sorry.”

  I am not nothing, I am not nothing, I am not nothing.

  He fumbled at his belt like a drunk; the slide buckle popped undone. He let gravity do the rest. The bell-bottoms fell to the floor, bringing the boxer shorts down an inch before they caught on his hip-bone. He stumbled out of the white puddle. He stretched, he scratched, he sniffed his armpit. He picked his blouse off the stage and flung it over his shoulder like a towel—Tubes wouldn’t even toss him a prop towel for his act. He ambled down the runway, as if heading down the hall to the showers, walking into the stares.

  The vocal part of the song kicked in, a woman singing wistfully about leaving for heaven at seven.

  He already felt naked, swinging and thickening inside his shorts. He wore boxers only here—elsewhere he wore briefs—so the novelty of their looseness was like a secret, extra nudity.

  Only now did he glance down at the audience, idly checking out the upturned faces. A few crumpled dollar bills were set on the runway by men who hoped “Bud” would stop and perform just for them. Toby kept going. He’d collect the money on the way back.

  Suddenly, despite himself, he wondered if he’d see Caleb here. Which was stupid. Caleb didn’t know about his hobby. Toby had given it up after they met and didn’t resume it until after Caleb dumped him. Of course there was no Caleb by the runway tonight, just gray heads and bald heads, beady eyes, shiny glasses, and one big grin. Not a cruel grin, but a careless, friendly grin—as out of place here as a grin in church.

  He came to the end of the runway. He mimed turning on a faucet, testing the water. He let the tension build. He could feel the stares harden from a ticklish cloud into something wiry like cat whiskers. He tossed the towel/blouse on the floor. He stuck his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts—there was a soft growl at his feet. But “Bud” remembered that he still wore his cap. He stopped, pulled off his cap, drunkenly smiled at it, and shook his head. And all at once, still clutching the cap, he bent forward, pulled down his shorts, and stepped into the “shower.”

  He was naked so quickly that the whole room went “Huh?” A mix of sighs and murmurs followed, and the audible creak of erections—no, only chairs. He slowly turned, “soaping” himself, luxuriating in imaginary water and real stares, a warm bath of cat whiskers. It got him harder; he helped it with his hand. His dick felt as big as a two-by-four. He could hide behind it. The song was almost over. He stroked himself, he flexed his ass—once, twice—and waited for the blackout.

  And waited. And the song ended. And the lights stayed on.

  Good grief. Tubes had missed his damn cue again.

  Toby tried to stay in character, but silence wrecked it. Everything disappeared: shower, hotel, drunk sailor. There was no fiction to hide in anymore. Toby stood absolutely naked in front of a pack of old men, a gawky, bony kid with a boner. He counted to ten, but the lights still did not go out. Without music, the fourth wall vanished too. “Hey, Bud?” someone cried out. “You need help finishing that?”

  But his erection was dying. He didn’t even have his dick to hide in anymore. Toby had no choice but to become Toby again.

  He declared his act over by releasing his dick. He stood there a moment, hands at his sides, his right foot tapping. Then he leaned over and grabbed his clothes.

  He stomped up the runway with his red flip-flops snapping at the crowd. He did not forget to pick up the dollar bills left wadded on the runway like candy wrappers. When he reached the stage, he kicked his trousers up into his hand and plunged through the curtain.

  Tubes stood beside the CD console, all three hundred pounds of him quaking with wheezy, stifled laughter.

  “You jerk!” said Toby. “You did that on purpose. Why? What did I ever do to you?”

  “Sorry, Bud. I couldn’t resist. You take this shit so seriously. And you’re cute when you’re naked. Not just make-believe naked, but naked naked.”

  18

  Toby angrily stuffed his uniform into his locker and pulled on his real clothes. He was done for the night, he couldn’t wait to be out of here, but he had to visit the Apollo Room one more time to get paid. Dancers were not required to trick with customers, but Mr. D., the owner, insisted they mix. Toby slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed down the hall, hoping nobody would recognize him in street clothes.

  The Apollo Room looked like a basement rec room back home, with paneled walls and shag carpeting. Along the rear was a carpeted platform where dancers lounged like house cats with cigarettes, pretending not to notice the men who noticed them. The other dancers weren’t a bad bunch, Toby had discovered. They were bitchy at times but too laid-back to be vicious. Their one vice was laziness.

  Toby made a quick circuit of the room. He’d learned to stop seeing men once they were eye level. Then he hunted down Mr. D. and found him at the wet bar by a large bowl of stale potato chips.

  “And you performed twice?” Mr. D. asked as he took a fat roll of bills from his pocket.

  “No. Three times. Ask Tubes if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you, Bud. Three times, sure.” He always tried to take advantage of the fact his dancers were often too stoned to count. He paid Toby with three fifties. “Hey, if you want to pick up another hundred, there’s an ex-Marine putting together a little party for himself.”

 
; “No, thanks. Got to go. Class in the morning.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Toby claimed to be in college, which nobody believed at first—they all told their johns they were NYU students—but his arrogance and all-around priggery convinced people it might be true.

  “Oh, I can’t work next Sunday. I’m in a play. It opens Friday.”

  Mr. D. was not impressed. “You’re not quitting again, are ya, Bud? Nobody likes a quitter.” But dancers quit here all the time, of course, what with drugs and jail and love.

  “No, just next weekend. I’ll be around after that. Good night.”

  He was almost out the door when a voice spoke at his shoulder. “Excuse me. Bud? I caught your act. And I must tell you: it was utterly delightful.”

  Toby reluctantly turned toward what sounded like a fruity old queen. He would smile and nod—there was no point in being rude. But the man’s face was not the usual middle-aged blob; it had sharpness, good looks, distinction.

  “And hot. Very hot,” he added in a convincing English accent.

  “Uh, thanks.” Toby studied him. And he understood. The face was distinct not because it was handsome but because it was famous. He’d seen it in magazines, the Times, and under glass outside a nearby theater.

  “Excuse me.” Toby lowered his voice to a whisper. “But aren’t you Henry Lewse?”

  The man looked startled. “Who? Oh no.” He laughed. “Good God. Not me. No. Never.”

  He laughed louder and turned away. But he kept turning until he faced Toby again, smiling.

  “I suppose I am,” he admitted with a chuckle. “My apologies. I didn’t expect to be recognized here. You flatter me. I never guessed that I was so well known in this country.”

  “I’m an actor myself, you see,” Toby explained.

  The face hardened, the smile faded. “Good for you.”

  Toby held out his hand. “Toby Vogler.”

  Henry Lewse took and shook the hand. He was shorter than Toby, and dressed all in blue, jeans and a jean jacket.

  “Toby? Short for Tobias?” The name seemed to puzzle him.

  “Yes. And everybody here thinks ‘Vogler’ is Jewish, but it’s a Swedish-German name in Wisconsin.”

  Henry Lewse appeared to think about that, then lost interest in his name. “I should have guessed you were an actor. Your number was so much more polished than the others.”

  “It’s supposed to end with a blackout. It got mangled tonight.”

  “Technicians,” said Henry Lewse sadly. “They do muck up the magic.” He pointed at Toby’s backpack. “I’m sorry to see you’re leaving. I would’ve enjoyed a chance to chat.”

  “I don’t have to be anywhere,” Toby confessed. “I just wanted to get out of here.”

  “A reasonable want. Do you mind if I walk out with you? I should be heading home myself.”

  And Toby finally saw it: there was sex in Henry Lewse’s eyes. He wasn’t shocked. No. But he was disappointed that a genius of the stage and screen could look at him with the same creepy lust of everyone else who visited the Gaiety.

  “I should tell you, Mr. Lewse. I’m not like the other dancers. I just dance. I don’t hustle.”

  “Oh? Oh. I wasn’t thinking that.” He laughed. “Besides, it’s a point of pride for me that I never pay for it.”

  “Sorry to insult you. I just didn’t want to lead you on.”

  “No apology necessary. A natural assumption given the nature of this place. Let’s drop the mister. Friends call me Henry. Could I invite you, friend to friend—actor to actor—to join me for a drink?”

  “What? Me? Sure!” said Toby. “Or hot chocolate. I don’t drink.”

  “Terrific. And so much safer too. Shall we?”

  Toby couldn’t believe his luck. This was Henry Lewse. And Toby had him all to himself. He noticed Raoul watch them leave, looking more amused than envious. But Raoul probably didn’t even know who Henry Lewse was.

  Toby grew more excited as he trotted behind him down the long flight of stairs to the street. He’d heard about this great actor and openly gay artist for years, seen his picture in magazines, read scores of interviews and profiles. If this homosexual could succeed in the theater without telling lies, maybe Toby could too. He had never seen Henry Lewse onstage. He was sure he’d seen him in a movie, but couldn’t remember any titles. What would Henry Lewse think if he asked for Toby’s favorite role and Toby couldn’t name one? He’d think Toby was a fraud. Then Toby remembered seeing his Hamlet on video back in college. Thank God. There was solid ground under his feet. He hadn’t liked it much—he didn’t get Shakespeare—but it was good to know that they could always talk about Hamlet.

  Whatever happened, he was not going to go home with Henry Lewse. He’d gone home with Caleb the night that they met, but that was different. That was love at first sight. And Henry Lewse was an important British artist, Toby told himself, much too serious to want a one-night stand with an American nobody. Besides, the man was old enough to be his father.

  19

  Henry led his pretty American down the stairs to the street. They came out between Beauty and the Beast and Howard Johnson’s. Straight couples sat in the restaurant windows, drinking and eating, betraying no awareness of the Sodom directly over their heads. The Gaiety Theatre had been a wonderful surprise tonight, a sanctuary of live sleaze in this wholesome electronic Eden. And look at what he’d found there. Bud or Toby, whatever the big blond’s name, loped worshipfully beside him.

  “The city that never sleeps,” Henry declared as they walked through Times Square. “The city that never stops eating. Unlike London. Where one is hard put to get a drink after eleven.”

  The sidewalks were less crowded now, their chief occupants giddy packs of high schoolers. Lights still glowed and shimmered at two in the morning, like the pretty aura of a migraine.

  “I know a good place where we can go for a natter,” said Henry. “I can get a drink and you can get your hot chocolate.”

  The twenty-four-hour coffee shop in the Milford Plaza stood halfway between the Gaiety and Henry’s bedroom. Maybe the boy was sincere when he said he didn’t hustle; Henry was sincere when he said he never paid for it—well, almost never. A long, friendly chat should undo any reservations Toby might have. That the boy would be drinking hot chocolate only added to the challenge.

  “Again, I liked your act,” said Henry. “Very smart, very sexy. Good music too.”

  “Yeah, that old swing stuff is great,” said Toby. “And I want to remind the men in the audience of their good old days.”

  “My boy. We’re not so old as that.” He laughed. “No, what you put us in mind of is our fathers.” It never ceased to amaze Henry how often actors hit upon the right effect for the wrong reasons.

  “We studied your Hamlet in college,” Toby confessed. “We watched it on tape. Over and over. Wow.”

  Yes, the boy was an actor. Alas. He had looked so hot onstage, dumb with sex, drowsy with lust, lazily swaying to the music and losing his clothes. He hadn’t seemed to give a damn about the audience. Pale and lanky, but with heavy haunches, he had looked utterly naked, not dressed in muscle like the cast-iron ox who preceded him. His cock stuck out like a finger peeking from a hand puppet. He’d been such an antiperformer that Henry hadn’t guessed he was an actor, not even when the music stopped and the boy awoke, as if from a dream, and clomped off like an insulted ostrich.

  “You were like a punk Hamlet, a pomo Hamlet,” Toby was saying, and all the other slogans about that ancient performance.

  No, he was no rough-trade beauty. He was an actor, merely an actor. Which explained the Marcel Marceau touches during his strip. Henry had wanted to go home with Bud but was getting Toby instead. Which might be interesting—he couldn’t tell yet.

  “You’re the Hamlet of your generation,” Toby concluded, a phrase that still made Henry cringe. “You brought Shakespeare to life for me. You made me want to be an actor.”

  Henry smelled the w
arm, sweet bullshit of flattery and was not entirely pleased. Up ahead was the ten-story billboard of a beefy fellow in briefs. “But why want to be an actor?” he asked and pointed at the figure. “When we could want that.”

  Toby gazed up. “You mean, go to bed with him?”

  “That’d be nice. Or maybe be him. A shameless, brainless beauty. Without a thought in his head.”

  Toby looked suspicious, unsure. “Not my type,” he said.

  “Oh? And what is your type?”

  “I don’t have a type. Except right now I’m in love. With a playwright. Maybe you know him. Caleb Doyle?”

  Henry blinked, then blinked again. “Can’t say that I do.”

  How curious. And Toby? He knew he’d heard the name before. This was the Toby?

  “Didn’t he write Something Chaos?”

  “Chaos Theory,” Toby said eagerly. “And other plays too. That one just closed. But it was a good play. I think it’s his best.”

  Curioser and curioser. Henry already knew Doyle, aurally but intimately. He had wanted to meet him in the flesh but was meeting his fleshy boyfriend instead. New York was a small town, but this felt like an improbable trick of fate. Henry was full of actorly superstitions: the Scottish play, a fear of purple, the need for rain on opening night. He couldn’t guess what this linked pair of encounters might mean. Lust became more complicated—and more interesting. He still wanted to bed Toby. After all, he’d already bedded Toby’s boyfriend, in a manner of speaking. But he did not feel as impatient as before. He was willing to take his time.

  They came to the coffee shop at the Milford Plaza and sat in a red upholstered booth by the window.

  “It’s called the Celebrity Deli,” said Toby, looking at the menu.

  “Alas,” said Henry. “I see no celebrities tonight.”

  “Except for you.”