Ingram, silent, plucked bacon out of the pan and placed it gently on the paper towels. He lowered the flame under the pan and poured the eggs into the grease.
Chris watched as his cholesterol silently protested. He gave the kid more time to answer, enjoying another sip of good coffee and the ongoing eye candy. He wondered if they’d fucked the night before. Not remembering sex was never a reason to believe or think it hadn’t happened in some form or another.
The kid worked the eggs, gently pulling from the outer rim of the frying pan into the center with the spatula. He’d obviously done this before.
“I needed a place to crash. I liked your act, your energy. Your jokes are like old, but still funny. My dad could never manage that—his jokes were never funny, but old. So, I figured,” he portioned out the eggs onto the plates. “I thought, from the look of you, that you might like some company.”
Chris held up his coffee mug for a refill. After placing the plates heaped with food on the table, the boy obliged, then placed the coffee pot on the table, covering a place where the Formica had long-ago chipped.
“Well, I do enjoy young men. And, as time has passed there have been fewer and fewer of them.” Chris threw all caution to the wind and added more salt to his eggs.
“It was nice sleeping with you. Your arms around me. Your wonderful bed. And, then to wake up to this amazing kitchen.” Ingram, his butt now leaning against a counter, plate in his hand, shoved a forkful of food into his mouth, followed by a large bite of buttered toast.
Chris had forgotten how much boys ate. He’d be broke before the weekend if this one stuck around.
“Listen, I have an appointment this afternoon. An audition. But, then I was hoping to come back. Maybe do a number or two at your club. Not a paying gig, of course. But, I don’t like to be a freeloader. I’d like to return your kindness and hospitality.”
“How long do you plan on staying?” Chris asked amused at the cojones of this, what was his name? This Ingram.
The boy blushed. “Well, if I get this part, I’ll have a paycheck again very soon. I’ve also got resumes in at several places around town. And most days there’s a cater-waiter gig.”
“What’s your day job?”
“I’m a cook. Not a chef, mind you, but a short order variety cook. Breakfast all day, diner food, you know. That’s how I paid for college, cooking eggs at all hours of the day for hungry stoned students.”
Chris savored the food, and the boy, in silence. After another sip of coffee, he began to feel a bit better. “Where’s your stuff?”
Ingram pointed to a small backpack. “That’s it.”
Chris was curious, but didn’t ask. “Tamburlaine opens at four. I get there about three or half past.”
Ingram pointed to the Playbill covers papering the walls and partitions. “Have you seen all these shows?” He finished his heaping portion of food. Chris thought Ingram might actually lick the plate.
“Yes. It’s one of the great joys of living in New York City, seeing the shows. I used to see them all.”
“Not now?” Ingram moved back to the table. “Finished?”
Chris nodded and Ingram picked up his plate and took it to the sink. Chris followed. “You wash, I’ll dry.” Once they got their rhythm together, Chris said, “Well, my fortunes aren’t what they used to be.”
“Really? You live in this cool place. Your club is classy and clean.”
“Well, business has been slow the past few…years. The Great Recession and all, you know?”
“Hmm,” Ingram murmured. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower? Bed head,” he said, running his damp hand through his full head of curly hair.
“Help yourself. Do you need clean clothes? We could probably dig something up that isn’t too…feminine.”
“No, thanks.” He turned into Chris and pressed himself up against his host-ess.
They kissed. It was a small kiss at first. Just a brush of the lips. Chris let the boy lead. He parted his lips and Ingram slipped his exuberant tongue into Chris’ mouth. They played tongue tag for a moment. Chris dropped a hand and slid it into Ingram’s crotch. The boy’s little dick was at full attention, its size not much improved. He adjusted his grip and worked the boy hard and fast. It only took a few, quick moments until he shot with a gasp.
“Oh, I’ve…”
“Shhh,” whispered Chris. “Just go take your shower and get ready for your audition.” He watched Ingram leave the room, his cheeks flushed, head hung a little low, and a hand over his crotch. Chris smiled to himself as he quickly toweled away the cum on his robe and then washed his hands, scrubbed the frying pan, and wiped the counters. A voice drew him into the loft. The kid was still in the shower; the water ran and steam rose above the partitions. He sang. A tenor voice the likes of which Chris hadn’t heard in years. Like his name, the kid’s voice was old-fashioned, too. It reminded him of Eddie Cantor recordings. Soft, lilting, stylized. Then, suddenly, Ingram changed tunes and he was modern pop.
Chris sat on the unmade bed. Ingram sang a bit of a lyrical ballad Chris had never heard before. It was moving and powerful and the tones brought tears to Chris’ eyes. He’d had a voice like that once, decades ago, when drag queens actually sang instead of lip-synched.
When the shower stopped, so did the concert. Chris sat for a moment longer, listening to the boy clear his throat and then throw off a few quick scales.
“What are you auditioning for?” Chris called into the bathroom as he stood up and began making the bed.
“What?” Ingram came to the doorway, naked, drying his hair. His flat body all muscle and sinew.
“What’s the audition for?”
“Oh, it’s a callback for The Great Jericho Taylor’s revival of Godspell.”
Jericho Taylor. Chris had known him for years. Many, many years. It had been a long time since they’d talked. Jericho’s career took off, Chris’ hit the skids. It’s life in New York. People come and go. Clubs are in one day, out the next.
“A callback?”
Ingram went to the sink; water ran; teeth were brushed. Chris finished making the bed. He quickly changed from the robe into a fresh, pressed pair-of-slacks and flowing blouse. No makeup, no wig today. He wasn’t feeling it.
The kid emerged, ruddy and handsome in a boy-band sort of way. Chills ran through Chris’ body as the amazing talent and future of Ingram embraced him.
“What? Is my cowlick out of control?”
“No, you look wonderful. Very handsome. Star quality.”
“Thanks.” Ingram blushed.
“And, about what we almost talked about. Earlier. In the kitchen? You can stay with me as long as you’d like. I want to do all I can to support the arts.” He held out his hand, the beautiful red tips made Chris happy. “A little lunch money.” He palmed five twenty-dollar bills into Ingram’s hand.
“I can’t,” the kid protested.
“No, you should have a few dollars in your pocket. You can pay me back later. Or…no, later. When you’re on your feet again.”
Ingram practically fell into Chris’ arms. “You don’t know what this means to me.” The words were barely audible.
“Yes, I do.” He thought about giving Ingram a key, but instead said: “Come by the club when your day is over and I’ll put you to work.”
He waved to the boy as he left the building. What are you doing? Another stray. Another out-of-work actor. Are you insane? Have you learned nothing after all these years?
Chris puttered around the house for a bit before he picked up his phone, searched the contacts for the coded name and number. He pressed the phone icon and listened to it ring.
“Uh, hello. Chris Marlowe calling for Jericho Taylor…no, I’m not kidding. If you’ll just tell him my name, I know he’ll take the call.” Chris heard muffled conversation. “…Yes, it’s me. After a
ll these years.” He listened. “Well, Tamburlaine is still up and running. Although it’s been quiet lately…I would love for you to stop in, it’s been a long time….Of course…no, what I called about is a boy you have coming in for a callback today.” Chris realized he didn’t know the kid’s last name. “A young man I’ve come to know, Ingram—.” Thankfully, Jericho cut him off. “Yes, he’s incredibly talented and I was hoping I might nudge you into seriously considering him…I do. He’s a bit green, but has an amazing voice. He’s more versatile than you can imagine…of course. Yes, I know this was an inappropriate call, but that’s how this business works, right? We all take care of one another. We all have our agendas, right?...Yes, I’d love to see you. Still seven nights a week. Sure…I’ll buy you and your friends a round…okay…yes, soon.” The call ended.
Chris wandered into the bathroom. He picked up a towel from the floor, hung it on a hook; he took Ingram’s toothbrush from the counter and placed it in the holder next to his own. A sigh escaped his lips.
What are you doing? You can’t even take care of yourself and you’re getting a gig for some kid you just met. He added a little lipstick, which led to eyeliner and mascara. Are you insane? Of course, you are. A touch of rouge next and finally a little powder. Jericho remembers me. Chris turned his head and winked in his over-sized manner. “There, now you look like yourself.”
Chris ran his manicured fingers through his ringlet curls, tucked keys and wallet into his pockets, and headed for the door. He wanted to be out in the world. He felt, for the first time in a long time, that there was actually hope that somehow, someway, he’d be okay, and so would Tamburlaine.
Three
Chris Marlowe enjoyed a coffee at a sidewalk table of the small café. The crisp air announced fall’s arrival. The neighborhood welcomed fall: trees turning from dirty green to copper and brown before they’d lose their leaves all together; time to air out the cable knit sweaters and fake fur wraps. At one time they’d been real fur; thankfully, those were out of fashion now, passé; he’d needed the cash.
The men who passed paid no attention to the aging queen in makeup and heels drinking coffee. If Chris had passed a drag queen on the street in daylight thirty years ago, he’d have chuckled to himself. No one noticed. The times had changed. Having a bar where it was okay and acceptable to be like him was no longer necessary. It was embarrassing, even. The young queers weren’t hiding themselves away in alleys and basements. They were out and proud. They were running for political office. They were simply out, going to proms, kissing on the street, fighting for the right to marry and adopt children. Chris shuddered at the thought. Children? He had no interest or desire.
“Chris? Chris Marlowe?”
He glanced up to see the handsome Jericho Taylor standing before him. Chris got up and hugged his old friend.
“Let me get a coffee and we’ll sit and talk for a moment.” Jericho smiled.
Chris waited. His heart pounded. When they’d known each other, when they’d met, they were boys. Life was new to them. Possibilities existed for them. All of New York awaited them. A star: a commodity; a Tony Award winner; The Great Jericho Taylor they called him. He’d become everything he’d ever said he’d be. Chis looked down at his flowered blouse and realized he’d become nothing over the past decades but a frumpy drag queen. The world passed him by while he’d been inside Tamburlaine. But, now, here, in the light of day…
Jericho emerged onto the street, steaming cup in his hand. He sat down, still smiling. “Wow. We haven’t seen each other or talked in ages. Then, twice in one day. It must be fate.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, we’re working in the new rehearsal studios that just opened around the corner. I didn’t realize this neighborhood was the same as it had always been. These great old buildings and warehouses haven’t changed a bit.”
“Still the same, no more blood running in the streets in the afternoons. But, little-by-little, the city encroaches.” Chris gestured with his coffee cup to the green logo on the shop window.
“So, how are you? What are you doing these days?” Jericho asked.
“Tamburlaine. Still singing there nightly. Thinking about reopening the kitchen. But…”
“But what?” Jericho focused on Chris’ eyes.
Tears rose and Chris flushed at the sentiment. He brushed away a tear and hoped his mascara hadn’t been ruined. He wanted to…what? If he told Jerry everything, that’s what he wanted to do, but if he did Chris feared Jerry’s response.
“What?” Jericho pressed, taking one of Chris’ hands into his own.
“Oh, Jerry, I’m about to give up on the club. I’ve been bleeding cash for years. It’s not that I don’t have money, Jimmy took care of that; but no one is coming. It’s empty most nights. A few local drunks. I spend my evening singing to myself. Oh, listen to me, going on and on. I guess my time is done. The city has changed. The kids are different today. No one hides in dark clubs anymore.” Chris raised his head to find those friendly eyes intently locked on him. Chris filled the space to cover his embarrassment by speaking: “Not like they did when we were kids.”
“What can I do?” He hadn’t wavered.
Chris played with the green plastic coffee stirrer. “No, that’s not why I—”
Jericho repeated: “What can I do? We have a long history, Christopher, and I would be happy to do whatever I can to help you. I remember Tamburlaine. A lot of us do. It was fun and safe and wild. There aren’t many of us left who remember, are there? But, that doesn’t mean we can’t bring some of that spark back to the city.”
The steam from their coffee cups filled the silence between them.
“I don’t know,” Chris finally said. “I just don’t know how to save my club.”
Jericho’s phone rang. “Sorry,” he said to Chris as he answered. “Okay, I’ll be back in five.” He closed his phone and tucked it into his coat. “Listen, I have to go. But, I’ll be at your club tonight and we’ll come up with a solution…or at least a few ideas.” He stood and Chris followed. They hugged. “I really do appreciate our history,” Jericho whispered into Chris’ ear. He turned. Chris stood on the street with tears ruining his mascara as The Great Jericho Taylor walked away.
Four
Chris sat at the far end of the bar, away from the facing doorway. His spot. A metal plaque signified the designation. That brass plate with his name had been there for over four decades. Long before he owned Tamburlaine, he’d been first a regular, then a performer, and then a headliner. Moments like these, just him and a bartender, Chris missed cigarettes. Not that he wanted to take up the habit again, or would ever consider it, but it had always given him something to do with his fingers. Of course, to smoke these days he’d have to go out on the street, so uncivilized.
He flipped the page of the New York Times. The bombings and terror acts had returned. There had been a brief break, after that Flash Mob event at the train station. They’d broken up the ring of bomb builders. But, here they were, once again blowing up military installations, or at least, the gates of military installations. This time, they were further south. Not that Chris wished such problems on anyone, but better somewhere else than New York or New Jersey, like before.
Ingram entered, a stream of daylight following him into the club. The door closed. The kid practically skipped across the room. “How was your day?”
His exuberance was lovely.
“It was…quiet.”
Ingram scanned the empty Tamburlaine. “I can see. Do you want to go for an early dinner? I could whip something up for us lickity-split.”
“You’re sweet.” Chris turned his attention to the bartender who was cutting a lime. “Benny, put Ingram here on the VIP list. Anything he wants until further notice.”
“Oh, you really don’t—”
“It’s done. Have you ever really been here b
efore last night?” Chris knew he hadn’t.
“No. I’ve walked by a few times. There’s a rehearsal studio around the corner.”
Chris uncrossed his legs and slipped off the bar stool. “I’ll give you the penny tour. It used to cost a nickel, but the recession and all. How was your day?”
“Amazing. I’m, well, I’m pretty sure I got a part. I’ve got another callback at least. And, Mr. Taylor paid a lot of attention when I sang. And, they had me sing with one of the girls, so that’s got to be good. I’m flying. I can’t believe he stopped, asked my name, scrutinized my resume, and had me sing several different songs. I guess that makes sense, you know. Godspell is full of styles and options. Anyway, listen to me go on and on like a fool. I’m just so excited!” He hugged Chris.
As the kid talked, Chris pointed to the dining room, the small stage, the showroom doors, the door to the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t really been paying attention to you. Did you say a kitchen?”
“Yes.” Chris pointed again to the door.
Ingram led the way into it. “Where are the lights?”
Chris hit a bank of switches revealing a dusty professional kitchen.
“Holy smokes! You serve food here?”
“We used to. Still have all the licensing, although we barely passed our last inspection because the equipment hasn’t been well maintained.”
“What happened, Chris? Why did you…”
Chris twirled away, tears stinging his eyes. Damn, another ruined mascara job. “It’s been a tough few years.” Like ten.
“Well, with a little effort, you could be serving food again. I would love to be your chef. Like I said this morning, I’m not a gourmet cook, but I can serve comfort meals. We could—sorry.”
“What?” Chris appreciated this man, so full of energy and excitement. It gave him a sense of hope for the future just being near him. How could the world not spin with so much youth and enthusiasm to spend? At that moment he fell in love with Ingram, whose last name he still didn’t know.
Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival Page 2
