Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival

by Gregory A Kompes

  In shock, Jericho dragged him into the alley, closed the door behind them, and then pushed Chris to the ground, covering him with a jacket, pounding out the flames.

  “What in the world. Fuck, that hurts.” Chris struggled to sit up, but Jericho was still punching his jacket over Chris’ legs. “Breathe, Jerry. Breathe. I think I’m okay. A little burned, maybe. Stop trying to save me, you’re killing me.”

  “A little burned?” Jericho laughed nervously. He tugged out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. While he gave the woman who answered details, he helped Chris sit up, both of them used the alley wall as support. Before he’d hung up with the operator, sirens could be heard.

  “What on earth was that?” Chris made an effort to stand; his feet hurt terribly. He focused on them as best he could, but there wasn’t enough light. “Damn. They’ll want to take me to the hospital.”

  Sirens blared opposite the metal door. The revolving blue and white lights cast strange shadows above their heads.

  “Where else?” Jericho stood up and felt the door. It was warm.

  “Don’t open it. The fire might not be out yet.” He struggled to stand again, but decided to stay put and be rescued.

  Jericho pounded on the metal door. A moment later, there was a pounding from the other side. He pushed hard and the door opened. Two firefighters attempted to rush in, but they stopped.

  “His feet are burned,” said Jericho.

  “The ambulance is on the way,” one of the firefighters said.

  They went to the hospital. Second degree burns on his feet. For the next hour, they gave descriptions of what had happened while his feet were dressed and bandaged. They would keep him overnight, just to be safe. Chris got into a private room and called Frank and Matilda to let them know. He knew the club would be well taken care of. Frank would stop by the loft just to be sure doors were locked and everything was okay.

  Jericho waited, his foot tapping rapidly and continuously.

  “Jerry, what is it? Why don’t you go home? It’s late. You have rehearsals with the kids tomorrow. We open in two nights.”

  Jericho stared, his face in partial shadow, jaw set, small dimple deepened—a dramatic effect.

  “What is it? Are you okay? Should I call a nurse?” Chris reached for the remote control with a nurse’s picture on it.

  “No need for that.” Jericho moved close to him. “You saved my life tonight. You’re a hero.”

  “You’re being melodramatic. It was some drunken boys. I pushed you inside because you were in my way. I’m no hero; I’m a scaredy-cat.” He breathed deep, euphoria filling him as the pain medication surged through his veins.

  “No, you shoved me in and blocked me from being hit. And, those were no kids. They threw a Molotov cocktail. They were trying to kill us. Well, you.”

  “No….what? Do you think?” He looked out the window over the river. The poison. Now, fire. “You might be right.”

  “We should get you some protection.” Jericho had Chris’ hand firm in his own. “A body guard. Maybe a few undercover guys for the club. We don’t want you, or anyone else to be harmed.” He leaned in close and hugged Chris. “I can’t imagine…”

  Chris hugged Jerry for a long moment, enjoying the mingled scents of flop sweat and cologne that were Jericho Taylor to him. “Pull a chair over and sit with me for a bit.”

  Jericho did as told. He took one of Chris’ hand in both of his own.

  “We never did get to the nightcap.” Chris squeezed Jericho’s hand.

  “Well, you did. Painkillers are about the best you can do. It’s something when we can kill the pain; bury it forever.” Jericho’s eyes went somewhere distant.

  “Who do you think might be trying to kill me?”

  Twenty-one

  The world moved in slow motion as Chris recovered. Luckily, the soles of his feet weren’t burned, only the tops, along with the lower calves. Because of this, he could walk, or at least hobble around. And, with a handful of painkillers, he could do it without too much suffering.

  The bell rang. He shuffled to the kitchen and turned on the surveillance camera. Frank waved up at the lens. He held up a stack of foil containers. Chris pressed the button and watched the screen as Frank, balancing the food containers in one hand, pulled with all his might on the door. It finally gave way and smeared his arm with soot.

  Tired from the activity, Chris unlocked the kitchen door and sat down in a chair.

  “There’s the invalid.” Frank was pleasant and cheerful.

  “What have you brought me?”

  Frank placed the container on the table, followed by a canvas bag that clanked and clattered. “Dinner.”

  Chris began opening the containers. Frank pulled out a bottle of bourbon and a six pack of beer from the bag. He got out plates and hunted the drawers for silverware.

  “Forks are next to the fridge.” Chris pointed. Frank found what he was searching for. “Wow, chicken parm. One of my favorites.”

  “It’s really good. People are already asking when she’s making it again so they can book in advance.”

  Chris eyed the cat clock. “People? It’s only four thirty.”

  “Mommy, the place is packed.”

  “Look at you going Puerto Rican on me. Is that mascara you’re wearing? We’re going to turn you into a diva queen, yet.”

  “I watched Wong Fu last night. It rubbed off on me.”

  “So, I’m sorry I won’t be in tonight. There are two piano players already lined up. They’re going to come in, play standards, use the Black Book, and the waiters’ book. Be sure they don’t take anything out with them. My Black Book is an original!”

  “Yes. I know. So, eat.”

  “I will. There’s plenty here, do you want to join me?”

  “Chris, I can’t. The place is already filling up and I’m sure Randy is having trouble keeping up. Oh, I wanted to make sure it was okay to bring in a bartender for the service bar. Randy sucks with people, but he’s a helluva mixologist. I think the service bar is perfect for him.”

  “Fine by me. One complaint from Matilda or her team and he’s gone. I don’t really like his energy. Let the waiters in the dining room know they have to tip him out. I’ll pay him an extra ten bucks an hour for being in there.”

  “Only ten, boss?” Frank dipped a finger into the red sauce and licked it clean.

  “Get out of there.” Chris slapped his hand away. “Only ten. Let’s see what the tip-out looks like, and we’ll make an adjustment in a few days if needed. I want to test him there.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m outta here. You call me if you need anything. Oh, the company is coming tomorrow to clean down the front of the building. It’s covered by insurance. And, the cops found one of the guys from last night. They’re sure he’s not the one in charge, but they’re hoping he’ll leak them some leads.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Rehearsal went great this afternoon. I came in early and watched the show. It was an invited dress. All the kids are really sorry about what happened to you. The show looks good. We’re sold out through the weekend and at seventy percent for the next two weeks.”

  “That’s great. See, you all don’t need me there.”

  “You’re so full of shit. Take it easy so you can be there tomorrow night.”

  “It’s going to be weeks before I can play again.” Chris wiped at his eye.

  “Your hands are fine.” Frank considered Chris.

  “But, I can’t use the pedals. And, none of my pumps will fit over these bandages. Go take care of my investment.”

  “You’ll be there tomorrow if I have to come back here and carry you in. Got it?” Frank leaned down and kissed Chris on the cheek. “I’ll make the bank drop tonight and make sure everyone does what they’re supposed to do, okay?”

  Chris patted Fran
k’s hand. “It’s in the freezer.” He pointed. “Thank you.” He felt more sincere about those words than he ever had before in his life. It was the first time anyone had displayed such concern in respecting and protecting his business, his interests.

  Twenty-two

  Chris finished his dinner, poured a tall glass of bourbon, and downed a few more painkillers before making his way into the living room. In the past, he’d found the space comfortable with its overstuffed antique sofas and chairs, grand piano in the corner, and paintings hanging heavily from long, ribbon-covered chords attached to faux picture rails at the top of the partitioned walls. From eye level, the space was perfect. Inspect the ceiling and it appeared to be a stage set. In fact, that’s what it was. The stage set for a production of Arsenic and Old Lace, performed by drag queens in 1979. Now, the room felt overdone and cheap. Chris vowed that if all of the changes kept bringing in cash, he’d redecorate this room, and maybe his bedroom, too.

  Nothing would change tonight.

  He set his glass on an end table, plopped onto a sofa, and turned on the big television, strategically placed among the pieces of art. He trolled the channels, settling on an old Vincent Price black-and-white movie. When Chris was much younger, hating the family that had raised him, he’d imagined a variety of parental alternatives. Among those he’d visualized for his father: Vincent Price. His melodramatic style fit Chris’ stage presence incredibly well. What a combination: a child created by Vincent Price and Rusty Warren. Rusty was, of course, always his first choice for mother. And, frankly, his second choice for father.

  He rummaged around the coffee table and found Rusty’s DVD. A poorly made documentary, it still had clips from several television interviews intermixed with voice over mingled with a live Las Vegas stage performance late in Rusty’s career. After several attempts, Chris hoisted himself up, hobbled to the DVD player, and got the disc running. He settled on the couch, propped up his bandaged feet, and closed his eyes, listening to the foul-mouthed broad say her piece. Of course, by current standards, Rusty Warren wasn’t only tame, she’d be rated G in most markets—even with “Knockers Up.” But, in her day, she was the dirtiest woman around.

  As Rusty spoke, he imagined himself in full drag doing the jokes, taping the interviews, singing the songs. Of all the role models, he chose a flat chested boy of a woman. But, she’d been fantastic. She’d changed the world. She’d written a new script, nurtured the sexual revolution, and did it with laughter, alcohol, and a unique style. And, that’s what Chris admired.

  The bell rang. He hit a button on the remote and the television picture changed to the surveillance camera. Jericho. Chris buzzed him in. He still couldn’t find his balance. Too many pills. Too much bourbon.

  “Hello!” Jericho called from the kitchen.

  “Here,” he said, his voice low and quiet.

  Jericho, searching, entered the living room. “I can’t remember the last time I was here, but it all looks exactly the same. Just like Jimmy….” He sat next to Chris, taking his hand. “How are you?”

  “I think I’ve taken one too many pills.”

  “Overdose? Should I call someone?” Taking Chris’s wrist, Jericho felt for a pulse.

  “No, just sleepy. Will you sit with me? Keep me company? Talk to me?” Chris gained his senses for a moment and turned off the TV. He hit another button on the remote and Rusty Warren sang “Make Someone Happy.” Chris turned the volume down.

  “Some things don’t ever change.” Jericho took Chris’ hand and pulled it to his chest. “I do love ya’, Christopher. I always have. From the first time I ever saw you.”

  “You’re a sweet man, Jerry. Tell me about your day.”

  “Well, we had a lovely rehearsal in the morning. These kids are incredibly talented. They sing and move well. The acting will hopefully come in time.”

  “That’s it,” said Chris, his eyes closed, his words a little slurred. “You have to give them time to come into their own. We all need to nurture our talent.”

  “For someone so fucked up, you speak a solid truth.”

  Chris pulled his hand away and curled it in with his other, under his chin.

  Jericho grabbed a throw from the end of the couch and placed it over Chris. “So, we did a run through for the staff and a few friends. Dames at Sea with gender-swapped roles is a hoot. There’s so much strength in the real girls and so much style and softness in the boys. The early word is good.”

  “Frank said we’re sold out for tomorrow.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “What else, Jerry? Talk to me. I like having you here again. We’re old men now, huh?”

  “Speak for yourself. I’m not doing too bad.”

  “No, Jerry. You look good. Still fit. Still dancing. Still making boys drool.”

  “Maybe not quite as much or for the old reasons.” He patted Chris’ hand. “Your boy Ingram is doing well. You were right, of course. He has an incredibly versatile voice. Godspell is coming together, too.”

  “He’s not my boy. Just a stray I helped out. Found him on the street, fed him a little milk in a saucer, sent him on his way. That’s what you did for that kid from 42nd Street, right?”

  “Hm, Billy. Yeah. Hey, do you mind if I pour myself a drink?” Jericho stood up.

  “Freshen me up, will ya?” Chris reached toward his half-filled glass, but withdrew his hand.

  “Chris?” Jericho whispered.

  “I’m here.” He kept his eyes closed while Rusty sang on. He could see himself on stage. Was it him or was it Rusty? Was it ’76? ’96? Yesterday? Tomorrow? His playback blurred. Past performances. Chris in small titties, big titties. Bloomers, muumuus. Wigs everywhere. Stockings hanging over chairs. Naked men flowing in lines around him, doing the time step naked. Cocks and balls bouncing every which way while the audience applauded. Picasso’s crazy women coming to life and doing Swan Lake with Degas’ ballerinas. A nutcracker rode a two-headed llama as Dr. Doolittle sang “You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You.”

  Jericho danced onto the stage with another handsome man. They flanked Chris as he sang a solo. “Life’s a Bowl of Cherries.” They tossed cherries out to the audience who clamored for them.

  “Fuck me, Jerry. Harder. Harder,” Chris whispered in a pant as Jericho Taylor pumped his cock into Chris’ ass while the two gripped and held onto the dressing room hooks.

  Another boy ran past in a jockstrap. “Come on, Jerry. We’re on in a few seconds.”

  Jericho pushed hard and deep into Chris and came with an explosion. He pulled out fast, bringing exquisite pain to Chris, and ran for the stage, while tucking his dripping dick into his jock strap.

  “Jerry!” Chris called.

  “I’m here.” Jericho stroked Chris’ sweating head. “I think we should call the doctor.”

  “I just had the craziest dream. We were at the old Tamburlaine. We were young and handsome. Remember?”

  “I remember,” Jericho breathed in a whisper. “You’re burning up with fever. We should call the doctor.”

  Chris opened his eyes toward his friend. “No. The doctor said this would happen. There are drugs on the counter in the kitchen. I’m supposed to be taking these antibiotics and something else. Plus, the pain pills.”

  “Have you been taking them?” Jericho stood up.

  “The pain pills. I can’t remember about the others. Frank made me take something.”

  Jericho went to the kitchen and returned with two pills. “I’m going to get you a pill box so you can keep track of what you’ve taken. Got it?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Please, you’re older than me.”

  Chris swallowed the pills with bourbon.

  “You should probably be taking those with water, not booze.” Jericho took away the glass of bourbon, left the room, and returned with a tall glass of water.

&
nbsp; Chris dutifully drank. “You should do a revival of Hello, Dolly! I’ve always loved that show. It’s big. You could make all those boys dance and dance. I think I like that show because there are so many boys in it. All those waiters.”

  “Didn’t you do a tour of that show?” Jericho asked, sitting down on the couch.

  “No. I was offered a non-union bus and truck tour that stared Mimi Hines and Phil Ford. But, I got offered a lead at Tamburlaine at the same time. Jimmy was trying to keep me around. It worked out okay.”

  “I’ll say. You ended up with the club and the loft.” Jericho sounded perturbed.

  “He offered them. I had the money and bought them. I made it happen. I kept the place open. You all took off. All of you. All the boys left and the queens were alone. Everyone died. Everyone left here and died. I lived. There wasn’t anything else to be done.”

  They were at a familiar impasse. This had broken them up the first time.

  “Chris, this was over twenty years ago. Nearly thirty,” Jericho said.

  Chris turned away. “Everyone died and you abandoned me.”

  “I didn’t. I took a job. Jimmy was trying to screw all the boys. He wasn’t paying us well. I got a better offer. I had to take the better job.”

  “Jerry, it was on a cruise ship in Hawaii. You just left. No goodbye. No letter. No fuck you. Nothing.” Chris reached for his glass. Gone. He reached for the water, but withdrew his hand. “Oh, I’m tired. I really don’t need to have my heart broken again and again by this same moment in my life.”

  “You’re right. We can’t keep having this argument. We’ve been fine all these years, so long as we don’t spend more than an hour or two together. Times have changed. We’re in business together. You have to let this go. Whatever it takes. You have to move on. Forgive me. Move into the present. Look toward the future.”