Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival

by Gregory A Kompes

  “I was going to say we could get this place on its feet with a great comfort kitchen. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”

  Chris looked into Ingram’s eyes for a long moment before he spoke. “I love that you’re presumptuous. And, that might be something we’ll try. I’m going to meet with an old friend this evening to talk about a few ideas for the place.”

  “That’s great.” Ingram’s disappointment was palpable.

  “In the meantime, why don’t you go out with a few of your friends and celebrate?” Chris reached into his pocket.

  “No, I have money. I…I.”

  Chris pulled out a key. “It’s for my place. You remember which door?”

  “Oh. Gosh. I’m…I do remember…. Are you sure?”

  Chris tugged Ingram tightly to him. “Yes. I told you this morning, you’ve got a place with me as long as you need one. But, I need you to take off for a bit so I can talk to my friend.”

  “Your lover?” Ingram turned his face toward his feet. The pout seemed real.

  “No, just an old friend. We did have a romp or two, but that was a long, long time ago.” He wanted to say, “before you were born,” but refrained. “So, go out.” There were a lot of other things that could be said. “Celebrate. Enjoy your evening with some people your own age. And, I’ll see you at home.”

  “At five in the morning?”

  “Probably.” Chris turned off the kitchen lights and led the way to the bar. He walked Ingram to the door, kissed him on the forehead, and then wiped the trace of lipstick off with his thumb. “Bye.” He watched Ingram sulk down the block. The kid turned, saw Chris watching him, and he did a pirouette and gave a wave before disappearing around the corner.

  “Who’s the kid? Son from some tryst of yours while on a bender?” Benny laughed.

  “Just a kid. An actor. A stray. You know the type.”

  “The city is filled with the type. Bourbon?”

  Chris returned to his spot at the end of the bar. “How about a cup of coffee. It’s a fresh pot, right?”

  “Will be in five.” Benny went to work.

  Chris suddenly felt antsy. He walked to the stage, went behind a curtain, and flipped a few switches. “It’s Raining Men,” blared. “Not now, girls.” He turned it down and pushed a few levers, colored lights came up on the stage and around the room. If he squinted just right, with the lights and music, it was the Tamburlaine of his youth. It was filled with queers dancing, drinking, a cloud of cigarette smoke over the room tinged by a hint of poppers. The mirror ball spun bouncing specks of light off all the surfaces and people. Drag queens, dozens of them, performing and entertaining. Singing their own songs. Magical. A spectacular fantasy come to life.

  When he returned to the bar, Jericho Taylor, tall, handsome, watched Chris.

  “You’re certainly not seeing me at my best today.”

  “I’m your friend. You don’t have to be at your best with me, ever.”

  “You’re sweet, Jerry.” Chris kissed Jericho’s cheek.

  “No one has called me Jerry in a long time.”

  “No, you’re The Great Jericho Taylor now.”

  They just stood together, close, gazing into each other’s eyes. A flood of memories and history flowed without words between them. The energy caused some cosmic shift and, for just a moment, they were once again the only two on the entire planet.

  Chris wanted to question why it hadn’t worked with them, but then he remembered Jericho. The cad he was. The cheater. The libido of…

  a dancer.

  “Can we still get a good dinner here?” Jericho asked.

  “No, not at the moment. We’re between chefs.”

  “So, let me take you to dinner. We’ll catch up. And, I’ve already got a few ideas that you might enjoy.” Jericho placed a hand on Chris’ lower back and guided him toward the door.

  “Let me just grab my wrap.” Chris returned to the bar. Benny waited with a colorful shawl. “You can close up tonight, right?”

  Benny shook his head. “I’ve got plans at midnight.”

  “Just lock up if I’m not back. Be sure to lock the gate, too. Got it?”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Chris turned to Jericho, now framed by the door he held open as sunlight flooded in from behind him. That sunshine gave him the look of a saint on one of those holy cards, the ones given out at funerals. Something stirred in Chris’ heart: a flash of memory; a hint of desire; a tingle of regret.

  Five

  Jericho and Chris had talked for hours. They’d relived a few old memories and rehashed about the state of musical theater over the past decade. What they hadn’t discussed: Tamburlaine.

  After folding the linen napkin, Jericho placed it on the edge of their table. He’d already paid the check, after a polite and expected argument between them. “Listen, finish your coffee and then take me to your club. We’ll walk through it and I’ll share my ideas.”

  “Fine.” Chris wiped his thumb over the lipstick mark he’d left on the cup before he finished the last swallow of coffee. “I was wondering if you really did have ideas to share or if you just wanted my company for a meal.” He batted his eyes in Jericho’s direction.

  “Well, I do enjoy your company. I’m only sorry we fell out of touch all these years.” He offered his hand to Chris, who accepted it and stood. It felt so comfortable to Chris, his hand resting in Jericho’s, that he panicked. He pulled his hand away, straightened his blouse.

  On the street, the wind off the river chilled Chris; he stepped closer to Jericho and slid his hand into the crook of the great director’s arm. “I have missed you.”

  Jericho placed a hand atop Chris’ and increased their pace toward Tamburlaine. The place was locked up like a fortress. All the gates were down over Tamburlaine’s door and window.

  “I told Benny to lock up when he left. But, so early?” Chris led the way into the side alley and the rear door of the club.

  “It’s almost one.”

  “Really?” Chris popped the lock. “How time flies.” They’d talked about how quickly it was all going by during their dinner. “Here we are.” They entered, Chris pulled the door closed behind them, and then turned on a few lights in the kitchen. He let out a gasp. The place was clean, shiny clean. As if some magic elves or one of those reality TV cooking show people had brought in a team of workers.

  “It looks great,” said Jericho.

  Chris just nodded. “The hall here leads to the backstage area.” They walked down the hallway; he pointed: “Dressing rooms, bathrooms. Star’s dressing room.” He turned the corner and pulled a lever, the stage lights came up full and blinded them for a moment. “It needs a good cleaning. We haven’t had a show in here for…a while.” He really couldn’t remember the last production. “It’s not very big. Not big enough to do more than a review.”

  “I remember.”

  “Of course,” said Chris. Just because Jerry hadn’t been there in ten years, twenty, how could he forget the place that gave him his start?

  “There are some smaller shows that will work here.” Jericho walked onto the stage. He clapped his hands a few times, listening to the quick reverberation. He sang a quick scale: “La la la la la la la la la.” The notes sounded crisply. “This is a great space. I’d forgotten. Has this ever been used for anything other than drag shows?”

  Chris harrumphed. “You never did understand.”

  “No, I didn’t then and don’t now. And, at least then the boys sang.”

  “Well, we agree on that. Queens should sing, not just lip sync.” It felt like a repeated record. “I’m not going to defend it again. I’m not going to have this same argument that we had a dozen times thirty years ago. I won’t do it.” Chris left the stage in tears. How had it happened again. Anyone else could say whatever they wanted and Chris would fight back
, viciously if necessary, about the life of a drag queen. But, when Jericho questioned him, it was over. He fell to puddles of tears. He went to the back of the house, in the dark, to nurse his wounds.

  “Chris, I didn’t mean…oh fuck it.” Jericho walked the stage. He inspected lights and curtains and fly space. He walked out through the seating area, tables and chairs, not rows of seats, until the last bit of the theater where five rows of old, velvet-covered seats moldered and decayed. Chris followed him out through the swinging doors at the rear, into the sidebar. There were lights on in the barroom; he moved toward the light.

  “Remember being a young dancer, a show boy for the queens? I noticed you leave that gig out of your bio.”

  “When did you read my bio?” Jericho presented his award-winning smile.

  “I went to see 42nd Street. I managed to get in before the reviewers.” Chris, behind the bar, poured bourbon into two glasses. When Jericho approached, he pushed a glass toward him. They drank.

  “Listen,” Jericho began. When he set his glass down, Chris refilled it. “I really do want to help you. I know we have a volatile history. But, all the same, I want to help you. This is an amazing space.” He gestured with his glass, taking in the small showroom stage connected to the bar. “I can’t remember what this building used to be. How is there a full stage with fly space?”

  “It was a factory in the twenties. In the late thirties, it was converted to a speakeasy. The big showroom was added in the forties and the place was popular through the fifties. Then, it was shuttered. In the seventies, Tommy inherited the building from his aunt. You remember him, right?”

  “Crazy S-O-B.” Jericho swallowed the shot and allowed another refill.

  “Well, he started this underground drag club that became very popular around the time you and I arrived in the early eighties.”

  “When did you buy it?”

  “Late nineties. Tommy died, like so many.” Chris dabbed at the damp corners of his eyes. “We lost so many.” He took a sip of liquor. “Anyway, it was in the will, that if I wanted to buy the place, I could, and his estate would carry the note. It was good for a while and then, around the time equality and rights and lip syncing were all the rage, we fell off. I think young people saw me and what I was doing here to be a joke. They wanted pounding music and drugs and, well, not this.” He pointed a red tipped finger into the darkness of the room. “I thought about giving them what they wanted, but it wasn’t me. I thought about selling, but couldn’t. So, we’ve been quietly limping along for a decade. There’s a buyer interested now, a developer, but I just can’t let it go, you know? I promised him.”

  Jericho didn’t speak for a long moment, his eyes drilling into Chris’. “Well, I think it’s time to change. But, my suggestions include doing something a bit different.”

  Chris felt his resolve like iron over his wrists. “I’m listening.”

  “I want to mount a show here, and then maybe a new one every month or six weeks. Small casts. We’ll do them under showcase contracts, so they’ll be cheap. Young actors. They work for peanuts. Occasionally a name or star who will work cheap because they’ve always wanted to try a role or because they’ve always wanted to work with me.”

  “What is this going to cost?”

  “We’ll work out the numbers later.” He moved toward the middle of the room. “I think you need a piano in here. Get people up and singing. Old stuff. A good piano player. Late nights. And, shows that defy gender. Men and women switching roles. Turning straight plays gay. I’ve always wanted to try this, but haven’t had a venue. If you’ll allow me, I want to try it here.” He implored. “Really, this can work.”

  “I don’t doubt that. I just…I…I don’t know why you’re willing to do this for me.”

  “Not just for you, but with you. I have to tell you, while it seems like you’re getting the better end of this deal, I really do think it’s me that’s getting it. I’ve always wanted the freedom to do something outside the box on a regular basis. Not just directing revival after revival the way the mainstream expects it. What do you say?”

  “I…I…”

  “You have to do this. You know you’re doing this. Stop playing hard to get. I mean, you have nothing to lose!”

  “Another bad investment, perhaps.”

  “Oh, Chris, you’ve got more money than anyone I know. Sell a fucking painting.”

  Christopher Marlowe contemplated his empty glass. Jericho was right, money wasn’t the issue. Working with Jerry was. Having his heart broken day after day, that was the issue. Not having anyone to go home with at night and share the success and the failures, that was the issue. “Fine.” The word barely audible. “Fine.”

  “Really? You won’t regret this. I’ve got so many ideas…”

  On and on Jericho talked. Moving around the rooms. Talking and drinking and drinking and talking. He inhabited another world. Chris watched him as he passed from the bar to its small stage where Chris performed nightly, from the bar to the dining room and big showroom. Wherever he wandered, Jericho’s voice trailed him as he talked incessantly about this idea and that. None of them involved changing anything. Instead, they were all ideas about shows and actors and possibilities.

  Chris felt his world evolve in those late hours alone with Jericho. It reminded him of meeting Jimmy that first time, of fucking Jericho—of being fucked by Jericho. Of roses tossed at his feet after completing an aria. It was like…now. Like then, a brilliant moment…with a hint of…of…future. The possibility of a new era: not reliving the past, but creating a new chapter.

  Six

  Chris entered his kitchen. Lights on. Rusty Warren softly sang “Life is Worth Living,” from somewhere deeper in the loft. He dumped his wrap on the kitchen chair, poured a glass of bourbon. He watched the tail wag on his aqua antique cat clock. Three fifteen.

  “You’re home early,” said Ingram, who wore only pajama bottoms.

  “Hello.” Chris raised his hand and cupped Ingram’s face. “You look sexy in those silks.”

  “I hope you don’t mind.” Ingram’s voice was soft. “I found them in a drawer.”

  “Going through my things on your second night here?” Chris left the boy and opened the fridge, now filled with food he hadn’t bought. Fruits. Vegetables. Their colors blared under the bright bulb. “You’ve had quite a day. I assume it was you who brought my kitchen up to code? And my fridge.”

  “I hope you don’t mind. I was bored. Benny helped for a bit. No one came into the club the whole evening.” Ingram bit his lip. “Sorry.”

  “Well, an old friend has offered some help with that, so we’ll see how it goes.”

  “Is that old friend Jericho Taylor?” Ingram squared himself, facing Chris. “Are you the reason I got that callback?”

  “Yes. And, don’t be jealous, it was Jericho who has offered to help. And, yes, I called him on your behalf. But, I know him. When you got another callback it’s because he likes you, he saw something in you. There isn’t anyone who can get someone into Jerry’s show just because they’re a friend.”

  Ingram didn’t speak. He poured a few fingers of bourbon into a glass. Chris held out his empty glass and, after a long moment, Ingram filled it.

  “Listen, in this business, hell, in this town, if someone offers you a hand up, you take it. There are too many of you. Handsome singers who dance, dancers who act, triple threats. You’re on every corner in Manhattan. You take help or you perish.”

  The two drank to the bottom of their glasses. Ingram refilled them both with a smile. “So, you’re happy with the kitchen?”

  “You know I am, Baby. But, if you become a Broadway star, who will cook in there?”

  “One thing at a time. Are you hungry? I could whip something up for you.”

  “No, Jerry and I had a very nice dinner at Veronica’s.”

  “You had
dinner at Veronica’s?” Ingram’s eyes grew wide as saucers.

  “Yes. Jerry suggested it.” Chris sat in a kitchen chair and removed his heels. “The food was very good; surprisingly large portions. Most of those uppity places serve you nothing and charge you a fortune. This was an actual meal.”

  “Jericho and you at Veronica’s. You say it like it’s nothing.” Ingram sat at the table across from Chris. “We went to Veronica’s…We went to see the Queen of England…”

  “It’s just dinner with a friend. The place, the titles, the expectations, they just don’t exist for me like they do for you. I’ve been in this town a long time. You’re too young to remember or even know my name, but I was a star when I was not much older than you. A star.” The word hung between them. Ingram poured a bit more booze. “So, you want mother to tell you a story?”

  “Please, don’t invoke mothers.”

  Chris laughed. “As you wish. And, I’m tired. And, I’m a little too drunk. So, the story will have to wait.” He stood, wobbled a bit, and then made his way down the hall to the bathroom.

  The boy trailed behind. “You can’t drop a word like star and not share a little.”

  Chris sat at his makeup table and began the ritual of removing his makeup and washing his face. “Be a doll and turn on the shower so it’s good and hot.” He watched Ingram, the boy’s ass was perfect, his stomach flat, his chest strong and wide and hairless with erect nipples in the middle of huge, deep brown aureoles. Instead of licking those inviting bullseyes, he began: “I was born a small black child in Alabama.”

  “Come on.” Ingram’s eyes sparked when he smiled. “Don’t be a drag queen. Be a storyteller.”

  “Same thing.” Chris offered a head turn and over-sized wink. “Well, I arrived in New York, a confused little queen. My drag was horrible. I didn’t know anything about makeup or foundation garments, but I could sing. I made the rounds of all the piano bars and sang. I was laughed out of a lot of places, but the ones that let me in, that let me sing, well, they invited me back. I earned a few tips. I met some men. I slept around. I got known.” He let the cold cream soak into his skin a bit. “I met a queen. Mercy Mia. She took pity on me and taught me the ropes. She got me into the lineup at Tamburlaine. Oh, those were the days. Drag queens everywhere, performing, singing, dancing. The crowds and the money. It was amazing. And, me a little girl, just starting, oh how the old men loved me. I rode all their cocks at one point or another and made lots and lots of money.”