Little Did I Know

by Mitchell Maxwell

  The cast was beaming and they all started to applaud in return. Elliot cued the orchestra to play “You’re the Top,” and in disbelief I watched as the company sang this famous Cole Porter song to our former nemesis. It went on and on and on. Then Lizzy Barrows climbed the three steps onto the stage and asked that the music stop. Elliot, who never missed a cue, did as instructed and the cast stood silently in wait. I stood next to JB in the back of the theater.

  Veronica tiptoed in, took my hand, and whispered in my ear, “Great show tonight, honey.” I got goose bumps. If someone had asked me to say something right now, I would have come up mute.

  Lizzy Barrows spoke. “Thank you all for tonight. You are all truly wonderful. Your performance could have only been given by people who are blessed with lots of generosity. A gift you cannot teach but perhaps I could learn. I came here tonight with a great deal of mad inside me. You made it all seem dumb and left me ashamed. I will come back this summer often and I will bring my friends, so they can experience the joy you have all given me tonight.”

  There was not a sound in the building. Nor even a breath of wind or rustle of leaves from outside.

  “Mr. Secunda,” she continued, “I would like to give you all a gift. I don’t sing or dance and all the stores close early here in Plymouth, so please take this gesture of my appreciation to enjoy your collective day off tomorrow. Divide it between yourselves and consider that dinner is on me.” She handed Secunda a stack of hundred-dollar bills, shook his hand, kissed a couple of the girls on the cheek, and exited into the house.

  The orchestra played another hit song from the show, the famous “I Get a Kick Out of You,” and the cast sang along. Secunda passed out hundreds until everyone had received one, and then he gave the rest to the orchestra and crew. Lizzy Barrows drove off the compound honking her horn to the music. As she disappeared into the night, the orchestra faded out.

  I didn’t get it at all. This woman had come into our house to do damage, to hurt our community. She’d betrayed our trust and then left the hero, showered with song and applause. Was it the money? Were my friends and coworkers so easily bought? Where was their pride?

  I wasn’t going to forget her intentions, no matter how many hundred-dollar bills she threw my way. To trust her because she now appreciated our talent and ability to create joy? Please just blow me. She was still a black widow. She was still someone who looked to create chaos and woe. I would share my dismay with my friends. I would pay for my own dinner. At least I wouldn’t choke on my loss of integrity.

  I thought our day off had truly come not a moment too soon. I also noticed that it had been raining. Once again, Mr. Capra was right.

  73

  We headed east into a new day, the morning haze disappearing under blazing, neon-yellow July sunshine. It was going to be a hot one. Many of us had piled into my blue birthday van while others followed in a cavalcade of auto shows of years past.

  Our destination was Provincetown. A small town at the end of the Cape, so close to king’s country you could fish in the English Channel with your rod and reel. Provincetown had many stories to share from its varied history. If not for an argument aboard the Mayflower, the Pilgrims would have set foot along the shores of P-town and the rock up north would have never found its way into our history books.

  The original Pilgrims splintered and many moved onto whaling fortunes and lives of true religious choice. The village that baited the anger and quixotic nature of the ocean had been leveled by myriad hurricanes. Numerous murders from years past to present remain unsolved. Perseverance, courage, guts, and a love of this land with its unending kaleidoscopes of pastel beauty continued to rebirth the small community.

  It was home to artists and writers, from the early poets to the great American playwrights Tennessee Williams and Eugene O’Neill. It housed restaurants of eclectic genius in the culinary delights. It nurtured young artists whose work was sold in tiny galleries. It was a town of timeless artisans who toiled in leather and pottery, silver and glass. The fishing community was vibrant and operated as if time had stood still.

  Most recently, Provincetown was home to the alternate lifestyles that emerged in the late sixties. Gays and lesbians lived as they wished in P-town, without concern as to the judgments of the cities and towns they left behind. Whether they stayed the summer, a weekend, or a lifetime, it was a small town with no boundaries. It danced all night every night, fueled by the freedoms it offered to all who chose to partake.

  We had stopped at Race Point on Cape Cod to play in the largest sandbox imaginable. The dunes were otherworldly. The sands bled into the horizon. Then, just as you gave up hope, looked for an oasis or camel to take you home, the ocean appeared. Just steps away from the last hill, you were back on planet Earth and in desperate need of a swim.

  We threw Frisbees and footballs, rolled around like puppies. We abandoned responsibility, carousing like kids during recess. Those of us who had coupled this summer held hands, stole kisses, and cheered our friends as they frolicked with abandon. The undiscovered love affairs, those that had done no more than simmer so far, edged toward the boiling point in the morning heat. James had gotten everyone stoned on the drive, and everything seemed new, fresh as wet paint. It felt as if this was all for us. We were privileged, special, touched by some higher being, for mere mortals could not possibly engage in such wonder without divine assistance.

  Veronica and I grabbed every moment zealously, almost desperately, as though I was headed overseas to war. I held her hand and heard my friends laugh loud and strong, and the waves took me places I had never been nor imagined. We found our way to a late breakfast at the seaside Lobster Pot. Seated at long, simply dressed picnic tables that overlooked the Provincetown harbor, we were in a postcard of schooners, deep blues, cloudless skies, and history. We ate eggs Benedict with crab meat, and downed spicy Bloody Marys and fresh longneck clams that had left their sandy homes only minutes before meeting us.

  We walked the main hub in town and perused the stores on old Commercial Street. We window-shopped jewelry, leather, crafts, and sex emporiums that made us blush and roused our curiosity at the same time. We stood in front of a place called The Toys of Eros. Its window was filled with male mannequins in leather and strap-on dildos, thousands of colorful beads on strings, and invitations to check their selection of cock rings. A sign offered a discount on edible underwear. Other mannequins wore leather metal-studded collars attached to leashes. There were handcuffs and sex toys whose function I couldn’t imagine.

  Janet was the most eager to cross the threshold into perversion. I wondered what ASK was thinking. Veronica suggested we go in and I said yes, but my heartbeat quickened as I thought, Well, let’s learn some new positions. As long as my ass was not involved.

  Veronica, ASK, Janet, Kellie, Secunda, and I entered the store. Everyone else went to the nearest bar. Any bravado I might have possessed disappeared when I saw a mannequin with a strap-on dildo fucking another one from behind. “Awkward” was a poor way of describing how I felt. I did notice, however, that I was better looking than either of the mannequin men. Why did I think that important?

  The clerk was soft and pasty. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt from under which his little belly protruded. His belt was studded, and connected to one side was a chain that found its way into his front pocket. He needed a shave or a better attempt at a goatee. He wore an earring in his left ear and had a pin on his shirt that said “ROGER.” He greeted us with a big smile and a sincere “Can I help you?”

  “What are these blue beads?” I asked with a touch of fear.

  Roger was pleased to answer. “They’re anal beads.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Well, what do you do with them?”

  “You stick them in your anus,” Roger replied matter-of-factly.

  “Well, of course you do. Where else would you put them, hon
ey?” Veronica said as if someone had suggested you take aspirin for a headache. “We’ll take them. What color would you like, sweetie?” I picked red to match the color of my cheeks.

  My group was in animated conversation with other salespeople, so I needed to pass the time. “And this?” I asked Roger as I pointed to a circular leather piece somewhat larger than a cigar band.

  “That’s a cock ring.” I stared blankly.

  “You attach it to your erection and pull it tight,” he explained.

  I winced. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because when you come, it’s much more exciting. In fact, some people think it makes your penis larger.”

  “Oops,” Veronica said, “my guy here doesn’t need that, but we’ll take one for our friend over there.” She nodded toward ASK.

  Roger seemed to look at me in a new light; I was extremely uncomfortable and wanted to leave.

  Veronica pointed to a lovely sort of gemstone in a sapphire blue set like a stud for an earring. Roger anticipated her question. “That’s a stud for your scrotum.”

  “I don’t have a scrotum,” Veronica answered quickly.

  “Well, women often use them on their nipples or their labias.”

  My stomach turned and I wanted to throw up. I no longer found any of this funny.

  “Why would anyone stick a stud in their scrotum?” I asked. “Why not stick your cock in the fireplace or light a match and burn your pubic hair off?”

  “Well, that would hurt,” said Roger.

  “But sticking a pin in your scrotum doesn’t? Wow, let’s have some fun tonight, Veronica. I can stab you in the vagina and you can give me a puncture wound in my testicles.”

  She giggled at my agitation. I offered a “thank you” to Roger as I left the shop. I wanted to get to the street before I puked. Maybe I was a homophobe or a prude, but anal beads didn’t sit right with me. I smiled at the unintentional pun in my head.

  Veronica came out a few minutes later carrying an “Eros bag.” She opened it and said, “I got you anal beads and a blue cock ring.” She thought it clever and amusing. I did not. I wasn’t happy. Feeling embarrassed, I walked quickly ahead toward the bar to meet the others.

  74

  As I raced down the street, I noticed the hundreds of advertisements posted throughout town. They promised drag shows, female impersonators, stunning imitations of Judy and Marilyn. There were ubiquitous, fetching invites to parties. Everything suggested a bacchanal, and as I walked past I wondered who would be the first of my friends to suggest we attend.

  The entire day seemed like a precursor to a New Year’s Eve bash. The town was festive and friendly. Everyone was coupled, and public displays of affection were the norm. It was odd for me; I was embarrassed and surprised by my reactions to the lesbian and gay couples everywhere. I had always thought lesbian women were big, unattractive, smaller versions of sumo wrestlers. True, P-town had hundreds if not thousands of those women. From the back, you were certain that when they turned around they’d be sporting a penis and a beer belly to boot. But there were many women off the covers of fashion magazines or the centerfolds of Playboy. Some of these women were so gorgeous I was considering becoming a lesbian myself.

  Then there were the men. Couples who were mismatched: you know, a hunk with a nerd. Sort of Burt Reynolds or James Caan with an Arnold Stang or Don Knotts. There were men who had chosen one another because each was awkward and unattractive, and those who were clones, buffed and shirtless, letting the world know how lucky they were.

  After I adjusted, I realized that all these couples, as well as my friends, Veronica, and myself were all connected in their own way, and it didn’t really matter with whom. I still gawked a bit much at first, but as the day progressed I felt part of the melting pot and a bit more grown-up. We chatted up other couples. Not all were welcoming at first, yet we managed to make friends quickly, and my attempt to distance myself from this strange and open place evolved into something kinda cool.

  Finally, we found our way to the wharf, where we intended to rent a ski boat and wet suits and hum across the midnight-blue waters of Provincetown Harbor. We reserved our time for later in the afternoon and then went off to kill the next ninety minutes.

  Across from the wharf was the Provincetown theater, whose long history was jaw dropping to many of us. Plays by O’Neill and Williams had started here, read out loud for the first time on their way to greatness. O’Neill’s time in P-town was chronicled in a large exhibit of letters, photos, and hundreds of essays. He was clearly a tortured soul.

  Was it necessary to be damaged to be a great artist?

  75

  By late afternoon our faces were all a bit too sun kissed, our skin raw from the dense, salty water and the hundreds of falls, dives, and inadvertent plunges we had all so happily endured.

  Janet suggested we take one last swim at the nude beach about a twenty-minute walk from the wharf. A nude beach. A nude coed beach. Janet Kessler could sell tickets to see her unencumbered breasts and make millions, yet here she was proposing a group skinny dip to finish our day. Some of us said, “Okay, great idea,” while really thinking, Wow, I get to see Janet’s tits or Veronica’s ass.

  The nude beach was an amalgamation of many things. None of them sexual, but most of them fun. I found myself checking out the bodies and bouncing boobs of my female cohorts and avoiding the swinging members of my male friends. I was embarrassed to see all the guys naked surrounded by so many strangers, so I looked past it all and marveled at how great Veronica looked without her clothes.

  It was all strange; I had spent hundreds of hours in locker rooms with teammates chatting comfortably in the shower. Never gave it a thought. I had seen lots of girls naked, several of whom now pranced like preschoolers along the perfect, white sandy beach. But now it seemed that somewhere in my brain I heard shouts of, Naked! Everyone is naked! Everyone including you! Then, as a final sign that this was not for me, I began wondering whether I needed to put sunscreen on my dick, and if so, how awkward would that be as I stroked my penis to avoid a sunburn. After a while, we all took one last swim, which really did feel nice without a suit, and went to the showers to ready for dinner and the bacchanal that lay ahead.

  Secunda’s parents were married in the summer of 1946. They took a two-week honeymoon on Cape Cod, and when they visited Provincetown they discovered a restaurant called Ciro & Sal’s. The place was inconspicuous, sitting in a small alley at the far end of Commercial Street. We decided to dine at this historic, unpretentious establishment.

  I strolled slowly behind the others. As we walked I thought about the assembled group. We were all playing something this summer, either on stage or through the facade we presented to those around us. Veronica had something I needed to know but chose not to pursue. My friends loved each other from afar but were afraid to make a first move. We all thought of Janet as the sweetest and loveliest of girls, but earlier in the day she’d been buying deviant sex toys and leading a drive to have everyone run around in their birthday suits. I was a neurotic mishmash of insecurities while I led others to believe I was the real deal and on top of my game. At twenty-one, I couldn’t sleep through the night without an anvil on my chest. Secunda was so irreverent and direct. Perhaps it was because he had dough and a safety net.

  None of us wanted to be real or feel anything. Otherwise, why did we drink so much and smoke weed and cloud our brains? Maybe that’s why Roger and his friends stuck their scrotums with pins—no question you would feel that.

  76

  After a day of adventure and endless ocean games, we were ravenous. We ate as if tomorrow we were headed for war. We had pasta, seafood, fresh mozzarella, an assortment of vegetables with a magnificent garlic sauce that was so good you could bathe in it. We drank jugs of crisp Chianti. We ate steaming garlic bread covered with melted Parmesan cheese. And then there was the foriana, an indescribable
taste-bud orgasm. It was a concoction of raisins, pine nuts, parsley, olive oil, red pepper, walnuts, anchovies, and grated cheese. Its aroma was pungent and beckoning as it was poured over steaming, fresh homemade linguini.

  It was close to nine o’clock, a spotty moon held high and fast above. The street was packed and each club more crowded than the next. The air was humid and dense. I was pretty certain that before tonight turned to morning we would see some rain. The music and energy was all around, infectious and impossible to ignore. Whatever dark thoughts had hung unspoken quickly disappeared into the laughter and percussive beat of this New England Mardi Gras. Everywhere you looked, people were dancing, manic and in full flight. There was no decorum here, just abandon and a whole lot of grinding. Men and women were shirtless, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and sex.

  Secunda and Kellie led us into a cramped piano bar. There were transvestites everywhere, tall, statuesque women/men who, other than for their size and formidable shoulders, were true beauties. Their gowns fit them perfectly and their curves were enhanced through the magic of fashion. It was difficult to remember they all wore penises along with their garters and four-inch heels. Secunda asked the pianist if Kellie could play a tune or two, and his professional reticence disappeared when offered a financial reward. Kellie played fast, loose, and easy, keeping the energy alive and vibrant. People clapped and sang, and the party seemed to take greater flight. Secunda grabbed the mic off the top of the piano, Kellie modulated the beat, and he began to sing a rocked-out version of Sinatra’s “I’ve Got the World on a String.” Songs about “sitting on rainbows,” “a girl from Monterey,” and “falling in love too easily.”