Attack of the Theater People

by Marc Acito

  “At least have the decency to look me in the face,” I say, sounding more like a Lana Turner movie than I intended.

  He looks up, his eyes wet and blue, like the Caribbean.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Here we are,” trills Hung as he throws open the door of his Chelsea apartment, “home sweet homo.”

  The room is the same curio cabinet as before, with the exception of a padded table in the center of the room. “What’s that?” I ask as I dump my bag on the floor.

  Hung makes a sweeping, someday-all-this-will-be-yours gesture. “That, my friend, is the best thing that ever happened to my sex life. Men who wouldn’t spit on me if I were on fire will get naked when I tell them I need to give free massages to get licensed.”

  “You’re going to be a masseuse?”

  “Ucch, no,” he says, shuddering. “Who wants to touch all those wrinkly people with sciatica?” He pats the table. “I got this baby from a guy I dated who moved to Minnesota or Mississippi or something.” He notices a pile of deep purple fabric. “Oh! This is for you. I was going to wrap them, but as long as you’re here…” He hands me the fabric, which is soft, like sweatpants. “It’s on account of throwing your jeans out the window.”

  I unfold it and see that it is sweatpants, but not like any I’ve seen. They’re structured like actual pants, with belt loops and pockets and cuffs.

  “It’s an idea I had,” he says. “You know how everybody always changes into their sweatpants when they get home? Well, these are regular trousers you can wear to work, but they’re made out of sweatpants material.” He smiles. “I call them Swousers.”

  I hold them against myself. “Thanks.”

  “Of course, most men wouldn’t wear purple. I made those especially for you. Go ahead; try them on.”

  Once again I slip out of my pants. “I really appreciate your letting me crash here,” I say. “Now that we’ve got a plan, I don’t want to risk getting arrested.”

  “Whell, you certainly couldn’t stay with Doug, the cad. Those confused straight guys will drive you nuts.”

  At the sound of his name, a wave of hurt crashes over me.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Hung says. “I didn’t—”

  “What’s wrong with me?” I say, standing in my underwear. “Why do I always fall for guys I can’t have?” I lean against the table, covering myself with the purple pants.

  Hung hops up next to me. “I used to be the same way,” he says, patting my knee. “I thought maybe I was afraid of sex, or of being gay. So I only fell for guys who were unattainable, like the defensive linemen at the University of Texas. But I got over it.”

  “How?”

  “I started getting laid.” He gives me a look you could spread on toast. “Trust me,” he purrs, walking his finger up my arm, “once you have sex with someone from the tribe, you’ll forget all about those amateurs.”

  He really is awfully cute, with his compact little gymnast body. It’s just that every time he opens his mouth, rhinestones fall out.

  “But how do you do it?”

  In an instant he’s a Puerto Rican girl on the subway, eyebrow cocked, lips pursed. “Girl, you are remedial.”

  “No, I mean, aren’t you scared?”

  He shakes his head. “Effie, we all got pain.”

  “I’m serious. How do you know what’s safe? Or who’s safe?”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Honey, I’ve got two words for you: Con. Dom.”

  I laugh. I’ve got two words for you is our high school joke, back when we were Play People instead of Theatuh People. He must have picked it up from Ziba. He’s one of us. It feels good to have a gay friend.

  “But condoms can break,” I say.

  He shrugs. “There’s always mutual masturbation.”

  “That’s not sex.”

  He puts his chin on my shoulder and whispers in my ear, his breath hot on my neck: “Obviously you’ve never done it with me.”

  Hung.

  Thirty-five

  We use a condom. And it doesn’t break. So we use some more. Then nestle like puppies until we wake up and do it again.

  Having sex isn’t a major accomplishment—it requires neither brains nor talent—but anyone who’s gone without can understand why I brim with a blue-ribbon happiness. For the entire day I can’t stop smiling, even when Hung brings me to a planning meeting for ACT UP, the political action group that’s formed out of frustration with the Gay Men’s Health Crisis. Just last week, over two hundred of its members demonstrated on Wall Street to protest the exorbitant cost of AIDS drugs. I can’t risk getting arrested at their next demonstration—a bit of guerrilla theater to be performed on the steps of the General Post Office for an audience of people filing last-minute tax returns (and the media who do stories about them)—but their courage emboldens me as I prepare for my own guerrilla theater.

  The following night I call Chad at home and get his machine.

  “Hey, Chad, it’s Edward. Listen, you can’t tell this to anyone, but my Persian friend, Ziba, the one who’s friends with the prince who would be the shah of Iran? Well, Ziba’s throwing a party for her cousin from Switzerland, and she mentioned that His Majesty is looking to raise some capital for the resistance movement. So she was wondering whether you’d be willing to meet His Highness before the party star—”

  There’s a click on the phone as I hear Chad’s voice say, “Edward? Edward?”

  “Oh, hi.”

  “Heeeey,” he says, all buddy-buddy. “Sorry I didn’t pick up. I just stepped out of the shower.”

  Cock tease.

  “What’s this about the shah?”

  The following days are full of preshow activity—rehearsals, rewrites, costume fittings. Each of us has a part to play except Kelly, who has to be at Starlight. It’s so much like rehearsing a play, it almost makes me forget I’m wanted by the feds, although maybe I’m just relaxed because I’m getting laid twice a day. The fact that my carnal relations aren’t complicated by operatic emotions (“It’s friendsex,” Hung says) keeps me focused on the task at hand.

  On the morning of Good Friday, I go to a pay phone and call the SEC, hoping that the day works out better for me than it did for our Lord and Savior. After getting lost in a voice-mail labyrinth, I finally speak to a human, who puts me through to another.

  “Mead Hunter,” the human says.

  “Hi, my name is Edward Zanni. I’ve been out of town, and I’ve just discovered I have a subpoena to appear.”

  “Hang on. How do you spell that?”

  “Subpoena. S-u-b-p-o-e—”

  “No, your name.”

  “Oh. Edward Zanni. Z-a-n-n-i.”

  There’s a pause.

  “The Party Monster?”

  “Guilty,” I say, immediately regretting the choice of word.

  In the background I hear him tapping on a keyboard. “Well, it says here you were supposed to volunteer information last month.”

  “I’m really sorry. Like I said, I was out of town.”

  “You were supposed to come in.”

  “But I hadn’t even gotten the subpoena yet.”

  Perhaps Reagan’s right. Maybe government is the problem.

  “You need to come in right away.”

  “Well, I was wondering if you’d be willing to meet me. You see, tomorrow afternoon I’m going to have proof that Chad Severson of Sharp, Thornton, and Wiley traded on inside information.”

  “Interesting,” he says in a way that indicates it isn’t. “Why don’t you come in now and we’ll talk about it? We can send a car around for you.”

  “No, no, I can’t. I won’t have the proof until tomorrow.”

  “That’s okay. We can—”

  “You don’t understand. Chad is leaving the country tomorrow night. For Switzerland. You have to meet me at the Waldorf to stop him. I think he’s been giving information to Rich Whiteman.”

  Silence.

  “The Texas millionai
re?”

  “Yes.”

  There’s another pause. More tapping.

  “Can you hold for a moment?”

  He goes away for a long time, and I wonder if he’s keeping me on the phone just so he can trace the call, and at any minute a police car will come screeching up and officers will jump out with guns drawn: Edward Zanni, you’re under arrest.

  Finally I hear his voice on the line.

  “Okay,” he says, “what time do you want to meet?”

  The morning of our sting, Hung and I have wake-up sex and shower; then he heads over to the Waldorf to do Willow’s and Paula’s hair and makeup while I throw on a T-shirt and jeans to run some last-minute errands.

  When I stop back at Hung’s apartment, the phone is ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Thank God you’re there,” Natie says. “We forgot to bring your suit.”

  “What? Where are you?”

  “At the Waldorf. Willow and I both had so much stuff to carry, and she thought I had it and I thought she had it….”

  “Can’t you go back and get it?”

  “There’s too much to do here. Ziba’s going crazy. You know how nervous these Persians make her.”

  “Fine. I’ve got a pair of khakis. They’re dirty, but—”

  “No, no, no. You’ve gotta go to the apartment. The tape recorder is in the garment bag with the suit.”

  “Shit.”

  “Don’t worry. I was just there. There’s no one watchin’ the place.”

  How can he know that? The whole point of undercover surveillance is to be undercover. I immediately assess my options: 1) Find something to wear at Hung’s. That fits. And doesn’t make me look like a Mardi Gras float. Then buy a new tape recorder on the way. With no money or credit.

  Okay, never mind. Option 2) Sneak into my apartment and pray that the SEC has better things to do on the day before Easter.

  Just in case, I disguise myself with Etienne Zazou’s fright wig and glasses.

  My beating heart provides a sound track all the way to Hell’s Kitchen. Even though Mead Hunter is scheduled to meet me at the Waldorf at 5:45, he sounded skeptical, like he thought I was up to no good. Not that I blame him. But I couldn’t risk meeting him without proof of Chad’s crimes.

  This is my last chance to get it.

  As I turn onto my street, I scan the parked cars for…for what? Guys with binoculars and earpieces? Every do-rag-wearing guy with a boom box on his shoulder is an undercover agent, every kid playing in the street an informant. I’m losing my mind. I walk toward my building, freakishly conspicuous in Etienne’s dandelion wig and Elton John sunglasses. If I don’t get nabbed by the feds, I’m going to get gay-bashed.

  My heart a jackhammer, I slip in the front door and head up the steep and very narrow stairway to the fourth floor, my footsteps echoing as I ascend, my hands sprouting stigmata of sweat.

  All’s clear. Respiration resumes, though perspiration continues. I take off the wig and glasses.

  I unlock the door with a deafening thunk, thunk, thunk and go inside. My Brooks Brothers garment bag is draped over Sweeney Todd’s Chair of Death. I unzip it to make sure everything’s there. Shoes, socks, shirt, jacket, pants, tie, belt. Plus my tape recorder, which I take out of the bag to test.

  I’m just about to press record when there’s a knock at the door.

  My heart ricochets out of my ears. What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

  There’s another knock.

  I’m going to die of a heart attack; that’s what I’m going to do.

  A bass voice says, “Anybody home?”

  Damn this suit. It’s brought me nothing but trouble from the start. Okay, think. Hide. There’s a sensible idea. Where? This is a one-bedroom apartment with inadequate storage. Damn. The fire escape. I could hide on the fire escape. I could escape, too; that’s what it’s for. Except that the window’s jammed. Natie and I never called about it because we’re living here illegally.

  Just then I hear the thunk, thunk, thunk of a key in the locks. Except the door was already unlocked. Which means I’m locked in. Trapped. Now what?

  The person on the other side of the door tries the handle, grunts, and does the locks again.

  Thunk.

  Thunk.

  Thunk.

  The door swings open and there’s a large bull of a man, breathing heavily. His eyes bug out at the sight of me, Stromboli right before he throws Pinocchio in a cage.

  “You live here?” he says.

  Say no. Say, “No hablo inglés.” Say “Fuck you,” kick him in the nuts; then run for your life.

  “Yes,” I say.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  He advances toward me. In a moment that combines the fight-or-flight response into one colossally awkward move, I thrust the garment bag at him, slowing his progress just enough to squeeze past and tear out the door.

  Unfortunately, I don’t see that there’s a toolbox on the floor. Actually, that’s not true. I do see it, but only after I’ve turned around to see what made me fall flat on my face. Dazed, I scramble to my feet, looking around for the tape recorder I dropped. I see it by the stairwell and am just reaching for it when the bull comes charging out of the door after me. He, too, trips over the toolbox, but manages to break his fall by colliding into me, sending my body hurtling backward, my foot grazing the tape recorder. He grabs me by the shirt with a thick, hairy hand.

  “You Edward Zanni?” he shouts, pinning me against the railing. I glance over my shoulder and see the sheer, vertiginous drop to the floor.

  “Please don’t hurt me,” I say. “I’ll go peacefully.” I can feel his breath on my neck. He’s sweating and needs a shave.

  Using his free hand, the bull pushes aside his jacket. Oh, God, he’s going to pull a gun on me. I’m going to die right here. I can see the headline in the New York Post:

  PARTY’S OVER FOR PARTY MONSTER.

  He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a slip of paper, gives it an aggressive lick, and sticks it on my forehead.

  “There,” he says, letting me go and stomping over to the door.

  I yank the paper off my face. It’s a notice of eviction.

  The bull takes out a drill and begins changing the locks. I reach down and retrieve my tape recorder.

  “Can I at least get my suit?” I say.

  The bull glowers at me over his shoulder. “No.”

  Like the song says, it’s a helluva town.

  I shuffle down the stairs, trying to puzzle out how I’m going to find an outfit suitable for entrapment. I’m so lost in thought that I don’t notice the Chevy parked in front of the building. That is, until two guys with haircuts above their ears get out, clean-cut in a wholesome, Mormon kind of way.

  “Edward Zanni,” the driver says, flashing a badge, “you’re—”

  Gone, that’s what I am.

  I tear down the street, glancing over my shoulder to see one guy chasing after me on foot, the other pulling out in the Chevy. I dart into traffic on Ninth Avenue, zigzagging around the southbound cars as they screech to a halt, then head east on the westbound Forty-ninth so the Chevy can’t follow me.

  I chug like an engine as I pump my arms and legs, past the Eugene O’Neill and the Actors’ Chapel, still not knowing whether churches grant sanctuary. As I zip across the street, I see that I haven’t lost the other agent. The Waldorf is at least seven or eight blocks away. I’ve got to figure something else out.

  I round the corner past the Ambassador where Barbara Cook is playing, grateful that the show hasn’t let out yet so there are fewer people on the street.

  That’s it, I think. I can find sanctuary in the theater. Pushing myself even harder, I race up Eighth Avenue to Fiftieth Street, then head straight for the Gershwin.

  Luckily, the house manager knows me. “Justpicking-somethingup,” I say, bounding up the escalator. With any luck the agent will run past the theater. As I reach the auditorium level, I can hear
the strains of “I Am the Starlight,” the “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” moment when Poppa, the old steam engine, inspires Rusty, the young one.

  I pop in the door that leads backstage. Luckily I’m familiar with the Gershwin’s Escher-like layout, its labyrinthine hallways equipped with traffic mirrors at every corner so the freewheeling cast can see one another coming.

  Kelly’s playing cards in the men’s dressing room when I come flopping in, a heaving, sweaty mess.

  “Edward!”

  “Hide me, hide me, hide me.”

  “What? Why aren’t you—”

  “No time to explain,” I say, grabbing at the rack of spare costumes. “What can I wear?”

  “Here, put this on.” She hands me what appears to be a dump truck with legs, and I instantly recognize it as the spare costume for Dustin, the roly-poly hopper car who always reminds me of Mrs. Fiamma. I stick the tape recorder down the front of my jeans, which is easier said than done because they’re a little tight, and step into the costume, which reeks like an old basement.

  I had no idea a Broadway costume would smell so bad. This show really does stink.

  “It’s perfect,” Kelly says, “because he’s disguised in this scene.” She grabs a mesh hood and Velcroes it to the hard hat.

  “What size shoe do you wear?” she asks.

  “Nine.”

  She grabs a pair of skates. “Close enough.” As she ties them for me I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look like a mobile beekeeper. “C’mon,” she says, “let’s get you in the wings where it’s dark.”

  This is a true friend. I barge in backstage at a Broadway show demanding to be hidden and Kelly doesn’t say boo, kiss my ass, nothing. She just leaps into action, unconditionally, unhesitatingly. Look up loyal in the dictionary and there’s a picture of Kelly. On roller skates.

  I follow her up a flight of stairs, walking on my toe stops and hanging on to the banister with two hands, the way I’ve seen the cast do. The costume must weigh thirty or forty pounds. It’s like carrying around a dead second-grader.

  The actors are gathered in the wings, ready for the final race. Through the scrim of the mesh hood I see the real Dustin chatting with the girl who plays Dinah. I try to back into a corner, which is not easy when you’re half-blind and on wheels.