Like People in History

by Felice Picano

"Crotchless lace panties," Matt said. "From Frederick's."

  "Where did you ever see those?" Calvin asked.

  "In a catalog." Matt began to blush. "One of the guys on board had it."

  "Bernard chose Colson?" I asked. "Doesn't this say something to you?"

  "No more than John Dean in a bouffant and crotchless undies does."

  "I take it back," I said. "I'm sticking with Haldeman. From a sexual point. I heard that he was..."

  "...one hundred percent prick!" Calvin joined me.

  "Oh, why?" He turned to Matt and slid a cupped hand under his chin. "Why couldn't your ancestors have come from Benin instead of Bari?"

  "Remember what we were talking about at dinner?" Matt asked. "Doing it with Haldeman?"

  "No! I meant when I told Calvin that I'd been bad. I have been bad." We were in bed—naturally! Virtually all our conversations in the two weeks since we'd met had either been precoital or postcoital.

  "I'm glad you and Calvin liked each other," I said. "You did like him, didn't you?"

  Matt was busily playing the left-hand part of the Rachmaninoff Second Sonata on my chest. "Didn't you?" I tried again.

  "Of course I did. Are you going to address my statement or avoid it?" "Avoid it," I admitted weakly, stopping his hand. "I don't want to know anything bad about you."

  "You know that telephone call I made today to the base?" Matt seemed to be changing the subject. "I have to go away a few days. Maybe longer."

  I sat up. "Don't punish me. I'll listen to the bad things."

  "I'm not punishing you! I really do have to go away."

  "Where?" I demanded, hearing—and hating!—the pout in my voice.

  "To San Diego. The base," and when he noticed my eyes widening, he added, "the VA hospital. It'll be all right. Just tests on some bugs I picked up there."

  I knew he was lying, shielding me from the truth. Part of me said it was his leg, that's why he was going. But another part of me said, No, it's far worse: cancer, leukemia—he'll be dead in a year.

  "C'mon, Rog. Don't be like that."

  "Like what?" I asked. "Horrified?"

  "I told you it'll be all right."

  I grasped at him as though he were being pulled out of my grip by a fierce wind. "You're coming back, right? Staying here with me?"

  "Of course I'm coming back," he said. "As for staying here... well, that's up to them. The brass. Not me."

  I thought: I'm going to lose him. And there's not a thing I can do.

  "You're fantasizing it all out of proportion!" Matt said.

  "Am I?"

  "Are you going to let me tell you about the bad things I've done?"

  "It's not some atrocity, is it? I don't want to hear atrocities."

  "Lie down and listen," Matt said.

  I did as he said. He'd not let go of me, and that made me feel calmer. His voice did the rest.

  "This happened in Saigon. I'd been there on leave a few times, but I never went crazy like the other guys did. And it's not what you're thinking."

  "What am I thinking?" I asked.

  "You know, about being with guys instead of girls."

  "Was there any of that there?"

  "You kidding?" Matt laughed. "Plenty! Not that I did much. Really, I didn't! But there are places you could go. Certain hotels, where you could buy a six-pack or a bottle of Scotch, maybe some opium or grass, and party. They call them homesteads. Don't know why. Then there are the guys who double up with a chick. They pay her and send her away. Not too many guys go after native boys. If they like Asians, they usually wait till they can swing a longer leave and a plane ride to Bangkok. The boys are cleaner and prettier and more experienced there.

  "There are some gay bars in Saigon. There used to be one that had a back room just like some of the bars here. For servicemen only! No gooks! Sorry, but that's how you say it. I went there a few times, but I only looked in the back. Most of these gay bars are just like ordinary servicemen bars except without girls. If you came in off the street without knowing, you might never know.

  "It was in one of these bars that I came to meet this fly-by. That's what the gays in Nam call Air Force jet pilots, 'fly-bys,' because that's what they usually do the next time you see them, fly right by you without even saying hello."

  "This fly-by's name was Todd Griffes, and he was an army brat. Family originally came from the Panhandle of Florida, but he'd grown up on bases all over the world, mostly in the East, as his father had been a marine. Well, Todd took me to a homestead and we did it a few times, which was okay, though nothing special. But he never flew by me. He always stopped and would try to get me in the sack again. Which was sort of nice.

  "What wasn't nice about him was that he was always broke. Never had enough money, was always cadging. One time I was in a USO just hanging around, trying to make some free trunk calls home to my Grandpa Loguidice, and I see Todd Griffes coming my way. I figure he's going to hit me up. Instead he offers to buy me a drink. He's been on a four-day leave and he's returning to Manila the next morning. I keep waiting for him to hit me up, and when he doesn't, I finally ask why not.

  "It turns out that while he was in Saigon, Todd earned money. A lot. Doing what? Dancing. Actually, doing a striptease in this gay gook place called Bubbles Dao's. Todd tells me all about it. You dance up on this circular platform in the middle of the room, and all these gooks lean over the fence surrounding you and try to get at you. Meanwhile, not only do you dance, but you also jerk off. For which Bubbles Dao pays a hundred dollars a minute!"

  "You're kidding," I interrupted.

  "I thought for sure Todd was kidding. Putting me on for, you know, turning him down. So I asked him how to get to the place and how to contact the owner and if I could go earn money there and all. I was really just waiting for Todd to admit he'd been jerking my chain. But he was consistent. He even offered to show me the place and to introduce me to Bubbles Dao.

  "It was getting late, and I thought maybe it'd be nice to spend the night with Todd. He wasn't great sex or anything, but at least I knew what to expect. So I make the offer. And Todd turns me down. No offense, he says, but he's going to spray his next load all over a bunch of gooks at Bubbles Dao's and collect thirteen, fourteen hundred bucks for the pleasure. If I wanted, I could tag along.

  "I went with him. The place had been built as a gambling casino in the forties. It was off the main street, with a good-sized main room, octagonal, with booths around some of the sides and bars around the other ones. In the big middle room was a dance floor, with colored lights and a few gook couples doing the fox-trot. Most of them were in suits, a few in uniform, and the uniforms we spotted half-hidden in the dark booths were pretty high-up ARVN! Very few Yanks, so the minute we walk in, everyone checks us out. Todd takes me to the central bar, where this real nelly guy in semi-drag—you know, makeup, hairdo, and blouse, but he's a guy!—is introduced as Bubbles Dao.

  "'You bring me a new boy!' is the first thing he says when he sees me. Todd says no. But that we're pals and he wanted to show me the place. Bubbles Dao wants me to do the show. 'So handsome. Like Tony Curtis!' he keeps saying."

  "You don't look anything like Tony Curtis!" I protested.

  "I know. Anyway, when I turn around, Todd is gone. Five minutes later, he appears on the circular platform, which is slowly rising through a hole in the floor into the middle of the dance floor. The fence goes up too. Just in time. Because it seems like every gook in the place charges it. The lights darken, then spots come on Todd. Theatrical lights. The music suddenly changes to Elton John's 'Candle in the Wind.' Todd's wearing some kind of field dress—fatigues, equipment, everything but a loaded rifle. He begins to gyrate and strip. When he takes his shirt off, he's got a sweaty grunt A-shirt on underneath, and every gook in the place moans. When he opens his pants, they sigh. When he pulls them down and grabs his dick, they groan and cheer. By the time the third Elton John song comes on—'Bennie and the Jets'—he's naked except for his boots and a cap, and h
e begins to masturbate. Mind you, the little platform is slowly revolving, and mind you, even with the fence, they're all reaching out their hands, so that at certain times, depending upon the angle, they're stroking his legs, the boots, sometimes even his ass, which Todd sometimes sticks out for them to reach—just barely.

  "I told you Todd was boring sex. Well, in Bubbles Dao's place, he's Marilyn Monroe and Paul Newman and Sally Rand and Elvis all rolled into one. I've never seen such a hot act. I'm immediately and totally hard watching him. And I hardly notice that Bubbles Dao touches my thing as he keeps talking about Todd's act and how I should do it too, how he'll fix me up with an outfit and the right music and all.

  "When Todd comes, he yells like some guy at a rodeo, and all the gooks yell right along with him, and he does what he said, he sprays them with his jizz, and they reach out for it. It's like completely animalistic and the all-time hottest thing I've ever in my life seen. The gooks are still begging for more as the platform begins to descend, with Todd dropped down on it with his knees spread out, sitting on his haunches, like a rock guitarist who's just played the wildest set, only Todd's holding his dick instead of a bass guitar.

  "Well, I found him down in his dressing room, and I was so hot, I just screwed Todd right there, even though I'm sure Bubbles Dao and some other guys were watching through the poorly constructed bamboo walls.

  "When we left, Bubbles Dao told me to come again, anytime, and work for him. He already had an act in mind for me."

  "Did you go back?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

  "Not only did I go back, I became Bubbles Dao's star," Matt said. "On every leave, I'd do two, sometimes three shows a day. I did soldier and cowboy acts and construction worker and surfer boy acts, and I packed 'em in. He had to pay me two hundred dollars a minute. And sometimes I did it for special groups, smaller groups, including women, for three hundred a minute, people who would stay there after I sprayed them, as I kept milking it, and who'd stand there as I sprayed piss all over them."

  "You must have liked it," I said, not sure how he'd respond.

  "Sometimes... I liked the money. I liked the attention. Being in the spotlight. I didn't care much for the smaller, special shows, even though I was paid more. What I liked was dancing, stripping, jerking off for all those guys, seeing their hands and their faces and their mouths, and watching sometimes a hundred or more, five or six rows deep, become one person, one sexual partner I could play on like an instrument."

  "But you stopped?"

  "Soon as I had twenty thousand dollars."

  "Twenty thousand dollars! That's a year's pay for me."

  "More'n the Navy pays me!" he admitted. "No, I lied, I did one more show. With Todd. Back to back and side by side with him on that tiny platform. My farewell performance."

  "Hot?"

  "Outrageous!" he said. "They tore the fence down to get at us. But you know, the guys who broke through didn't do anything. They just knelt all around us. Row after row of them kneeling and looking up at us. Funny, huh? You think Americans would have done that?"

  "They would have torn you limb from limb."

  "That's what Todd said."

  "Like the very first poet, Orpheus, torn limb from limb... Twenty thousand dollars!" I repeated. "You can take the next year off and... become a poet!"

  Matt smiled. "That's what I thought too."

  "Then why say it was bad?" I argued.

  "Sex for money is immoral and illegal."

  "That's complete bullshit!" I protested. But something else interested me more. "They were all Vietnamese? And they all fantasized about Americans?"

  "Bubbles never admitted it, but I'm certain some high-up VC came to those special shows I did. At those shows, I was always in complete gyrene duds," Matt said. "And once outside Bubbles Dao's I was outranked by most of the ARVN that I tame all over inside."

  "What a crazy, fucked-up war."

  "What? What's so funny?"

  I'd begun laughing. "I was just thinking. What a great thing to write up in your memoirs! You know, when you're eighty-five and this distinguished old poet, all grandfatherly and sage, and you write this. People'll scream!"

  We laughed until I demanded he dance for me.

  He did, briefly, on top of the bed, badly, to the last ten minutes of Strauss's Salome. Until neither of us could stop laughing.

  "Have you listened to it?" Calvin asked.

  "I listened."

  "Well, what did you think?" he added when I didn't answer immediately. "Didn't you think Journet and Pinza were fabulous?"

  "What I could hear of them. They sounded like they were at the end of a tunnel a mile long. And the condition of the tape itself isn't all that great. There were more snaps, crackles, and pops than in a Rice Crispies box."

  "Miss Smith claims to have located another pirate of Agnes," he said, soberly. "More modern. Fifty-four. Franco Corelli, Ludmilla Udovic, Maria Colzani, but only one bass. Giangiacomo Guelfi's baritone isn't really low enough. It's live but heavily cut. The Maggio Musicale in Florence, with Vittorio Gui conducting. Want to hear it?"

  "When's the decision going down?" I asked.

  "The final decision is next Wednesday. We're meeting at your hotel and then coming straight over to the Wunderlich party. The whole group of us."

  "Including Miss Thing at the Opera?"

  "To see and be seen. The Pozzuoli Gallery will be the place to be next Wednesday. Have to hand it to that white girl your cousin's boffing. She sure knows how to get publicity. Did you see what's-his-face's column today?"

  "And yesterday and two days ago! The Chronicle in debt to Doriot's daddy or what? Look, Cal, I don't have to listen to the Gui tape; I'll vote for Agnes on the first round." I wanted to tell him I might be the only one besides himself who would be voting for it. People I'd talked to were less than amused by Calvin's strenuous campaigning. I wanted to try to ease him for a disappointment to come. But how?

  "You are the sweetest! Ready for your weekly Donizetti update?"

  "Why not? I have no other reason to live."

  "Don't despair, child!" Calvin said. "That big hunk of honky boy'll be back soon, and then you'll be complaining about him being underfoot."

  "He jests at scars that never felt a wound," I said.

  "Never felt a wound, my café au lait ass!" Calvin declared. "Now, shut up and listen. In the classical history category, Belisario and Poliuto..."

  "I've heard of Poliuto."

  "Hush till I'm done! And Il dihivio universale. Noah's Flood to you."

  "Every watersports queen in town will come for the stage effects!"

  "Tell me, gee. Now, in the who's-certain-which-era category, we have Pia de' Tolomei, Gemma di Vergy, Parisina d'Este, Imelda de' Lambertazzi, and Alina among the women, and Marino Faliero, Gianni di Parigi, Betly, and Il Duca d'Alba among the men. Then—"

  "Are these all real? I'm sure you've told me more than sixty titles in the last month!"

  "Know who else wants to come to the party? Are you holding your ovaries, Despina? Mr. and Mrs. Bernard."

  "Antria? You're kidding."

  "Scout's honor, Antria wants to socialize. If they do come, I plan on keeping as far away as possible. I mean Bernard is my honey, Dorabella, but we are talking here about colorful, dress-up Negroes from South Chicago."

  I could picture her arriving in a sequined red strapless and stiletto heels. It would be terrific. Alistair would commit hara-kiri.

  "You've got to help dress her!" I said.

  "Nnn-nnnh!"

  "Calvin! We're talking about a possibly unmitigated disaster."

  "Mmm-hhhmm! We'll see," he trilled, "the mood I happen to be in."

  I decided to change the topic. "I went out last night. You know, in and out of bars on Polk Gulch. Hated every moment."

  "I thought you were talking to Matt every day?"

  "I couldn't reach him all day yesterday or the day before. When someone did finally pick up the phone last night, it was his
hospital roommate, who said Matt was sleeping and had been pretty groggy when he'd come back from... He wouldn't say or didn't know where from. I'm sure he's had surgery, Calvin. I called the front desk at the VA this morning and lied through my teeth. Said I was his brother to get information. They wouldn't tell me shit!"

  Over the phone lines, I could hear Calvin's sudden intake of breath. "Want to spend the night at my place?"

  "What if Matt wakes up and phones? No, I've got to be here. Cal, I'm worried about him!"

  "I'll light a candle."

  "Thanks."

  I admit it, I was not in the best mood circa lunchtime, as I went through the main floor of the shop, checking everything, which was my job.

  As the record department was within my view from my balcony office, I generally kept away. Now I was drawn to it by a sudden lack of music. By the time I'd gotten there from magazines, however, music was on again, a concerto for two oboes by Albinoni. Even so it was a bit loud.

  Where was Justin, my record department salesman? Not there, although the department was filled with shoppers. That was strange. If Justin were alone and he had to leave or needed help, he'd ask Monika or Barbara to spot for him. Not leave the department alone with six customers while he hunted down some recalcitrant LP downstairs in the stockroom.

  I turned to the customers. "Can I help anyone?"

  It turned out I could help all of them. Fifteen minutes later, I'd answered a dozen questions, recommended a Traviata, sold a Messiah, two discs of the Albinoni concerti, and a new Nana Mouskouri, and still not laid eyes on Justin. I was in the middle of a slow burn, about to phone Monika to come take over, when he appeared, putting on his sports jacket, arranging his tie. Had he been ill?

  "You okay?"

  "Sorry. I didn't think he'd have me away for so long," Justin apologized. And when I still didn't understand, he said the magic name: "Faunce."

  He said more too, but I didn't hear another word. I was already marching into the art gallery, where Faunce was talking to a tall gray-haired couple—hapless tourists—giving them some line about the third-rate Simbari aquarelles he'd spread out on the display case.