Like People in History

by Felice Picano

  "You did wonders with my hair."

  "Up!" he commanded.

  I stood. I was wearing a slinky pale-blue silk evening gown with Japanese lotus flowers on it, the bodice recut by Enrico so it exposed the natural cleavage between my own pushed together, worked-up pecs. My biggish shoulders were artfully downplayed by the bias on the sleeve. They'd aimed for a Classical Late Thirties look: long lines, flat sides. All the past week, I'd practiced walking in those damn wedgies at night, nearly spraining my metatarsi whenever I'd gone over in them, but these pumps were softer and lower and fit better. I swiveled my hips, and the gown below my knees swung in place!

  "Perfection! I'd say Kate Hepburn rather than Babs S.," Bebe concluded.

  "I can check Alistair now?"

  "Go ahead."

  When Bebe left, I reached for the little sequined purse, took out a silver cigarette box, slipped out a cigarette, checked my manicured, painted nails, put the Benson & Hedges Filter between my Cold Carmine-painted lips, and lit it—all the while carefully observing myself in the mirrors.

  I didn't look unnatural or forced. But it was me—not a woman. I saw a little bit of my sister Jenny when she'd been a teenager, eternally stopping at one mirror or another in the house to check her lipstick, and maybe too a bit of my mother getting ready for church. I copied her tone of voice whenever she'd say warningly, "Rog-gerrr!"

  I could admit now that I'd been afraid it would not be me; afraid that, like Frank Cioffi the year before at Flamingo's Halloween party, I'd turn out to look, sound, and behave totally different. Frank, a sweet, handsome, timid male, had in drag become a pushy, oversexed harridan.

  But I'd always been me, no matter the circumstances: totally stoned out of my mind on acid, checking in the mirror to see who or what was really behind those eyes, or pulling myself out of my sickbed during the least restful week of sleep in my life, when I had hepatitis, to stare at my eyes, through taxicab-yellow whites.

  Now I went out of my way trying to act girly; I openly posed at myself. Oddly, the only attitudes that seemed natural, despite yards of silk and the softly glowing pearls at my ears, wrist, and throat, were the ambivalent ones—the "gun moll," the "wisecracking girlfriend," the "career-woman," the "tomboy."

  Another theory thoroughly shot to hell: queers weren't women in men's bodies. I'd always known that, of course. Now it was proven.

  Another test passed. That's what it was for me: another ritual, another competition. Like my first orgasm. And my first major broken bone. My first orgasm with penetration. My first fistfight. My first orgasm on an LSD trip. The first time I'd realized I might die. My first orgasm with a man. My first bout with V.D. My first orgasm in public (where I might be caught and arrested). My first case of crabs. Each a step, a test, a ritual of manhood, sometimes long approached and worried about, often achieved unexpectedly or without much effort, Yes, even contrarily, this one of dressing as, being for a night, a woman. Because I'd done it on a dare, determined to fulfill that dare. And now I was content I need have no fear of ever losing my essential self or of questioning its gender, no matter what I did, how I dressed.

  A knock on the door. "Showtime!" It was Alistair.

  "C'mon in." I'd decided on my usual voice, moderately pitched: I'd softened pronunciation.

  Alistair looked terrific. With his high cheekbones, his longer, blonder hair, his more strongly colored and eye-poppingly cut gown, he looked a great deal more female.

  We did a Fellini "big-hats kiss" at each other's vicinity. Then stood and looked each other over. Bebe and Enrico pushed into the room, looking us over, primping us.

  "You look so natural," Alistair said.

  "You're a knockout!"

  "Let's see," he insisted. "Turn around." When we faced each other again: "Amazing!"

  "You picked it! It feels okay. But with all this silk sliding around, my nipples are always erect." Pecker too, I might have added, only it was held down, not very comfortably. "Turn around."

  Bebe and Enrico hugged each other with pleasure. When they left, Alistair sat down on the vanity seat and pulled me near.

  "I've only done this once before. Always wanted to. Ever since I was seven or so."

  "Not me," I said. "Give me sneakers and jeans and I'm happy. Good thing this outfit's simple."

  "Had to be. By the thirties, girls wanted to get out of them fast." Alistair laughed. "Real stockings in this era were silk, you know, not nylon, and held up by garter belts."

  He'd brought in a drink. He was posing in the mirror. "We do have fun together, Cuz, don't we?"

  "Do we ever!"

  It was only natural, given all that shared stuff, that I decided to tell him what had happened with Matt's poems at the magazine.

  "Of course," I concluded, "Harte's running scared that this time I'll really go. And I will. Soon enough. As for Sydelle, well, she acted no different than I'd expected. It's like this clothing in a way. It's all so prepared and yet at the same time so indirect. Poor women, taught all their lives to bend to men even when the men are stupid or wrong. Taught not to be direct or forward or openly angry... No wonder they become backstabbers. I'm ranting, aren't I?"

  "It's okay. It's just that... Well, the same day I gave them to you, I airmailed the poems to a pal at this magazine in Europe—you might have heard of it, Paris/Transatlantic—and he phoned today to say he'd take them and whatever else Matt has. In a way I'm glad...."

  Paris/Transatlantic was only the toniest quarterly in literature. Even if I had gotten them into Manifest, Matt would have preferred the poems in the P/T. And, of course, Alistair just happened to know the editor, just happened to undercut me. I could have spit fire.

  "You didn't think I'd even try?" I said.

  "Of course I did, darling. I was just so... What's the line from Yeats? 'I had a fire in my head.' That's all. I had to see them in print!"

  I fooled with my face. I'd like to set fire to his head. Between the fake falls and the tint and hair spray, it would go up like a torch.

  "Does Matt know about this stroke of fortune?" I asked.

  "He will tonight, when he comes to escort me—us. I thought tonight we'd celebrate."

  Why not hire the Rockettes while he was at it?

  "Clever Brecker," Alistair went on, "he's gotten someone to take us in a yacht." He pretended not to notice the smoke steaming out of my nostrils.

  As though on cue, Brecker knocked on the door and opened it—to Alistair's relief.

  "Well, Jesus H. Christ! Aren't you two remarkable!"

  "Our boat?" Alistair leapt to his pump soles and held out perfumed gloved fingers, which, to my astonishment, the overbred Horace bent to lightly kiss, evidently before he realized what he was doing.

  "Any moment now," Brecker said. "Matthew's arrived."

  "He'll be so pleased!"

  Brecker allowed Alistair to spurt out the door (and thus escape my wrath). I nervously lit a cigarette.

  Through the smoke I could see Brecker was dressed in an old-fashioned black tux. It fit superbly, and it was obvious that Horace— who at six-one looked good in most clothing—possessed those precise genetic Anglo-Saxon qualities that made him a paradigm in body and stance for the black classic designed for his forebears—from the reflective tips of his patent leather shoes, up his calves and thighs (looking well-muscled through the silky cloth), crisscrossing his crotch and leaping a flash of creamy cummerbund, up the snowy field of frilled shirt-front sealed at his throat by a white, almost avian, bow tie, up his blankly good-looking, tanned rectangle of face, with its vee at the chin, to his one defining softness: a wave of honey-colored hair.

  "I wasn't certain about tonight," he stammered from the doorway.

  "I've never done this before."

  "You should! You look..." He calmed himself to say, "Swell!"

  At this very moment, Alistair and Matt were meeting in the livingroom. I couldn't be out there, even though I knew that Matt was just now hearing exactly how well placed his
poems actually were, how "made" his career as a poet probably was, all in one fell swoop, thanks to Alistair. Probably Matt was hugging Alistair in gratitude, even kissing him. I couldn't stay here while that happened. Nor, on the other hand, could I witness it!

  I turned around, stubbed out my suddenly sour cigarette in the vanity ashtray, and caught a glimpse of myself. Dressed like that, with that betrayed look on my face, I thought, I don't believe it! I've seen an actress look exactly like this!

  Suddenly Brecker was behind me in the mirror. Even with my pumps on he was taller. In my little blue slinky, I was frail next to his tuxedoed bulk.

  "You feeling okay?" One meaty hand reached toward me, patted my shoulder, unsure. "You seem... Fresh air?... The garden?"

  We went out through the bedroom's glass doors. The night was moonless, glassily clear. A jillion stars shamelessly conspired against me.

  "Your cousin says this'll be quite a party," Brecker made conversation. "You don't mind my coming?"

  "No. You do look perfect," I said, truthfully. We'd neared the living room, but I couldn't spot them. Then I did. Matt was pouring drinks. They were close. He'd gotten his good news. He was happy. They appeared to be together. Matt looked a mile wide at the shoulders in Weissmuller's spermatic jacket, his face quite tan because of the contrasting light-colored silk, his hair blacker and more thickly curled than usual. I thought he looked more ethnic than since he'd worn sailor whites; a bit gangsterish. Because of what Sydelle had said?

  Brecker blocked my view. "I don't know what plans you made, exactly, and naturally I'll understand if you say no, but I'd very much appreciate it if you'd let me be your escort tonight."

  I began to snicker, and then stopped myself. Obviously, he'd been put up to it. It was all put up: the poems, the party, the outfits, all of it! And now I'd be worse than a fool, I'd be a spoilsport, not to go along.

  "Sweet of you," I took his arm. "I'll try to tell you who everyone is."

  "Okay." I thought he sounded breathy.

  We went inside. Compliments, congratulations, drinks—Bebe and Enrico took bows for their work. A foghorn tooted. Alistair and Brecker went to find our boat. I lit another cigarette, put it out, and lit a joint from my silver case. Despite how I was feeling, I had to keep in mind that Alistair and I had each taken MDA, which would kick in less than a half hour from now. It was still new stuff, who knew how powerful. It made sense to ease into it via pot.

  "Can I have some?"

  Matt joined me at the glass doors. As I handed him the joint, he sniffed die air.

  "You wore it." He meant the Mitsuoko. I had, although it had meant die poor Grunt chasing it down through the aisles of Bloomies yesterday during his lunch hour. Wasted effort now.

  As Matt handed back the grass, he said, "Harte called. He was upset. Said something about an argument you two didn't have..."

  I took the joint. "I'm through there," I said quietly.

  "What?"

  "I'm leaving the magazine," I repeated.

  "Just like that?" Matthew asked, in an accusing tone of voice,

  "I've had it there!" I said hard, too tired to go into detail.

  "Why?"

  I shrugged.

  "Did you argue about the story? Bernie said you were having a conference today..."

  Did the Grant know Matt called him Bernie? Once, feeling mean, I'd brought a pair of Matt's nastiest underwear into the office for the Grunt, wrapped in paper with ribbon. He'd received it as though it were the crown jewels. For the next two weeks, he'd come to work looking like hell, as if he'd been up jerking off all night. Imagine loving so selflessly, content with so little in return: mere recognition, some used underwear?

  "Was the argument you and Harte had about the fire you went to cover?" Matt asked. "You know, the fire in your vision!"

  The question surprised me. I thought I'd explained. "I saw ice in my vision! Everything frozen! Not on fire."

  "Fire. Ice. Same thing!"

  I thought of the man in his tiny cubicle knowing he was choking to death. He'd been pathetic, not mind-sweepingly catastrophic.

  "It's not the same! The scale is completely off... the absolute horror of the scale of what I saw... both times... and the sense of isolation... of being utterly alone!"

  "What do you mean, alone?"

  "Alone! Alone! I was the only one not affected at the Ice Palace. The time at Flamingo, there were a few others left. Four, five, out of thousands. The fire at the baths affected only three guys...."

  "If you're alone," Matt suddenly asked, "where am I?"

  I scanned the images seared into my memory. Where was Matt? I couldn't see him, couldn't find him.

  "Did I fall?" Matt asked. "Was I frozen, like the others?"

  I couldn't for the life of me find Matt. Why not?

  "Well?" he asked with that tone of voice that assumed he had the right to ask. "Exactly where am I in your visions, Roger?"

  I found I couldn't answer.

  He grabbed me by an arm. "Are you saying I'm not even there?"

  "I don't know!"

  "'Cause if you are, I'm not surprised. You haven't been here for a while. Not with me. Not at the magazine!"

  Grabbing me, he'd knocked the joint out of my fingers. As I became aware of it, I also became aware that Alistair and Brecker were in the foyer.

  "It was our boat," Alistair reported with false gaiety. "We'll get ready." They left.

  I bent to pick up the lit joint but was stopped by the tight gown. I'd forgotten I was wearing it.

  Matt stomped out the joint. He was angrier than I'd ever seen him. It scared me. He turned away.

  I reached out to stop him, feeling—in that dress, in those shoes— unreal, as though I were saying pre-scripted lines. "What's wrong?"

  He looked at me disbelievingly, shook off my hand.

  "Wrong? Jesus! You could at least... let me know it's over! Send me a telegram.... Something!"

  "Over?"

  "Isn't that what it means, when you can't even see me in your future? Lousy as that future may be!"

  "That's not what it means!" I argued.

  "Isn't it?"

  I didn't know what to say. Matt sounded so convinced.

  Just then Brecker came back. Oblivious of what was going on, he told Matt jovially, "I'm escorting the lovely lady in blue. You don't mind?"

  "She's all yours!"

  Matt couldn't get away last enough.

  The MDA hit as we were stepping off the yacht's gangplank.

  "Whoopsie!" I heard Alistair say ahead of us. I thought, What amazing drug timing! The entire scene in front of us shattered in my vision— I too was off!

  Brecker had my arm quite solidly, however, and he wasn't letting go. In fact, ever since we'd left the house, he'd taken a proprietary view of me, keeping me to himself, intent on amusing me, distracting me from the others, which—whether or not he knew exactly what he was doing—I particularly appreciated tonight. The boat ride had been short, ten minutes along the bay from Tarpon to just beyond Beach Hill, where the party was being held.

  We were stepping onto a little dock. I'd half given in to the drug's primary sweep over me, and I'd half held back, trying to gauge how strongly and on exactly what sensory levels those effects would manifest.

  Only somewhat visual, it turned out. By the time we were on solid ground, everything was "itself" again: somewhat outlined, it was true, and a bit over-three-dimensionalized, yet not morphologically distorted. I suspected that if, on the other hand, I closed my eyes... I'd experienced hallucinations of incredible cartoon likeness before on MDA! Meanwhile, in line with the "classic MDA high," sounds were intense, odors—even the bland local foliage—resonant, and touch far more sensitive and diverse—the silk of my gown felt astonishingly different from the sleeve of Brecker's tuxedo.

  By now, Horace was gliding me up to one of the two gateways into the party, this entry for those arriving in boats and via Bay Walk and thus more private, although by no means en
tirely vacant of the spectators and hangers-on who always dangled at the edges of the bigger Pines fetes. While most of these gawkers appeared to be in ordinary Pines garb, others had clearly been placed by the party organizers; dressed in thirties high-school-girl drag, complete with pigtails and notebooks with fat pencils, they'd rush up to arriving guests and loudly, whiningly, plead for autographs.

  It was as I was signing "Kate" that two huge, slowly revolving klieg lights nearby happened to cross in midair, suddenly illuminating the scene and making it appear exactly like some gigantic Hollywood premiere from a former age or a made-for-TV film. I shuddered lightly. Horace's lips brushed against my earlobe as he whispered with a hint of amusement, "What name do I sign?"

  "Joel McCrea," I said, because in that minute that's who he most resembled: the stunning young bare-shouldered god in Hurrell's photos.

  Matt—ahead with Alistair—had our tickets. They'd just signed autographs themselves—doubtless as Weissmuller and Crawford—and handed the tickets to two gigantico lugs in rented tuxes who then checked our names against their lists and ushered us in.

  "Did you see!" one queenlet in painted freckles loudly gushed to her cohorts in the crowd. "Kate Hepburn's dating Joel McCrea!"

  Her fat buddy in green-yellow pigtails screeched, "I could just die!"

  The rest of the crowd applauded, and we were through the gate.

  Two large pieces of property on the bay side of the Pines had been temporarily donated for the party. The larger belonged to the Count, Alistair's large-nosed friend, the slighter to a designer pal and former inamorato: doubtless an enormous tax write-off, as it was a charity do for the Pines Conservation Committee. Even so, major work had been done: fences, bushes, even small clumps of trees between the adjoining properties had been pulled down, and fresh planking connected them, quadrupling the decks along the designer's long lanai and the Count's already amply decked, Olympic-sized dual swimming pools.