Aldo scribbled his signature across the bottom of the page, stamped it with the community seal, and handed it to Fabrizio.
“Hey, Aldo, since we are friends, take my advice. It’s time to change your Grindr name. Maybe the photos too.”
Two minutes later Fabrizio emerged from the community office grinning with the certificate in his hand.
“Nooo! But how?” Enrico said.
“Your Grindr account. Tell you all about it back at the house.” Fabrizio threw his leg over the seat and grabbed onto his brother’s waist.
Enrico hit the gas and they zipped up the street toward the lakeside road and home.
Chapter Twelve
IT WAS ten o’clock. Maggie and Owen stood nervously by the door as people began to line up.
“Don’t let them in until we have at least a hundred people waiting in line.” Owen looked up at Big Eddy, who was guarding the doorway with his legs spread apart and his arms crossed in front of his massive chest.
“Why not let them in now?” Maggie said.
“Studio 54 tactics. I want them to beg for it,” Owen said.
From inside the DJ was pumping out the disco beats, and by ten thirty, the parking lot was full and people were getting impatient. At ten forty-five, Owen looked out at a group of drag queens, all glitter, high heels, and wigs, standing in the middle of the parking lot, posing and smoking. He stood on his toes and said to Big Eddy, “See them?”
Big Eddy nodded.
“They’re in.”
“You’re the boss.” Big Eddy made an ear-piercing whistle. “Ladies!” He pointed directly at them. “You’re in!” He jabbed his thumb toward the door.
People jeered and cheered as the gaggle of drag queens, waving and blowing kisses, sashayed through the crowd and strutted up to the doorway.
Owen handed them tickets for complimentary drinks and pointed to the DJ stage. “VIP section straight ahead, ladies.”
“Now, that boy has class, girls,” said one drag queen in an enormous blond wig. She fluttered her hand and gave Owen a series of Hollywood air kisses.
“Mm, mm, and ass too!” her friend in a pink wig sang out as she reached back and squeezed Owen’s butt.
“Why did you do that?” Maggie said.
“Because I want a vision of glamour to be the first thing that everybody sees, and besides, ten forty-five is international drag queen time. Everybody knows that.”
Just then Jessy and four beefcakes appeared in the parking lot all wearing firefighter T-shirts that looked as if they had been sprayed on. Maggie and Owen and half the parking lot turned and gawked.
“His timing is impeccable, as always,” Maggie said, shaking her head.
“What must it be like to be him?” Owen gazed at Jessy with equal measures of envy and adoration as he and his entourage paraded up to the door.
Jessy reached out and swept both Maggie and Owen into his arms, first kissing Maggie on the neck and then Owen on the lips. “You’re stars.”
“Go in and get the boys a drink. We’ll be in in a minute.” Owen beamed back with pride.
You could almost hear a collective sigh from the crowd as Jessy and his American wet dreams marched in through the doors.
Owen patted Big Eddy on the back. “Okay, Big Eddy. Let ’em in.”
The crowd pushed forward.
“One at a time!” Big Eddy growled and the crowd shied backward.
“C’mon, girl,” Owen said to Maggie as he took her by the elbow and steered her inside. “It’s showtime!”
By eleven, the roller rink was filled with drag queens poised on stilettos, aging queens stuffed into spandex, muscle Marys waiting for the opportunity to bare their pecs, posers and label queens with gelled hair and too much cologne, closet queens, and gentrified weekend fags. Biker gals in leather and denim in the company of their high-heeled, lipstick-toting girlfriends, clustered round the bar. While those who defied gender designation squeezed into whatever space they could. Even twinks and twinkies, brats clad in neon vinyl and street rats covered with homemade tattoos, all who were much too young to remember Gloria Gaynor and The Trammps, came to revel in the camp and glitter. It seemed as if just about everyone in Syracuse and the Finger Lakes area who thirsted for fun was here tonight to relive those magical days of disco.
Across the floor, a sea of bare torsos undulated to the throbbing beats like surfers waiting for the perfect wave. Owen’s eyes were fixed on Jessy, his body swaying to the rhythm and his head following, as if it were only surreptitiously attached. Like a layer of flawless latex, Jessy’s skin stretched over the plates of his pecs, rippling down past his turtle-shell-like abdomen. The band of his underwear clung just under the cut of his lats, kept in place only by the bulge of his butt, with the crotch of his jeans hanging forward like a package waiting to be ripped open and engulfed.
Jessy reached over and pulled Owen’s T-shirt up over his head, then pressed his warm torso, glistening with moisture, against him and the two gyrated and writhed to the rhythm, flesh upon flesh. Beside them, Maggie, in baggy shorts and a black athletic top, stretched her arms outward and swayed back and forth as if she were swimming through a tropical sea of exotic fish, their beauty and sensuality intoxicating her and filling her with grace and confidence. A bare torso swam past, strobe lights licking his flesh and accentuating the tide marks of sweat and glitter. Maneuvering in between, he pressed himself up against Jessy with a pill held in his teeth. A smile spread across Jessy’s face and he opened his mouth as if he were about to receive Holy Communion. The guy grabbed the back of Jessy’s neck and engulfed him in a kiss. Without missing a beat, Owen turned toward Maggie. They both knew the drill. Jessy would disappear into the dark room while they danced on. Maggie let her arms float like an Indian deity. She spun around and, as water fills a void, bodies flowed between her and Owen and they melted into the crowd and into the night.
The next day Owen and Maggie spotted their publicity balloons everywhere, on dashboards and in coffee shops. Maggie saw a group of schoolkids volleying a red one back and forth as they skipped down the street. The LGBT hotline made more money that night than they had made all year in donations, and word on the street was the party had been legendary. Owen’s phone began to ring incessantly. While Jessy finished his first year at college, Owen and Maggie quit their jobs and became full-time event organizers.
Chapter Thirteen
“COME OVER here and look at what I’ve found.” Fabrizio was sitting cross-legged in front of the old trunk holding an open letter in his hand. There was another on the floor next to where he sat.
“Stop going through everything. We’ll never get the place cleaned up at this rate.” Enrico came over and sat down next to his brother. “Those are Papà’s old letters. You shouldn’t be reading them.” He had a sour look on his face.
Fabrizio turned to his brother. “Our whole lives we’ve heard stories about Papà and Mamma. I want to know the truth…”
“…and Papà’s not able to tell us.” Enrico finished Fabrizio’s sentence, as they so often did.
Fabrizio read:
Dearest Achille,
My hand is shaking as I write to you. I pray you not think of me only as a silly schoolboy of seventeen infatuated by an older university man. But I must tell you I am almost a man and, I say to you with the heart of a man that to me you are invincible in body and spirit, like the god whom you are named after.
Your adoring servant
Antonio
Like a mirror image the two boys stared at each other with expressions of bewilderment on their faces.
“What the hell…,” Enrico said.
“Sounds like this Antonio guy had the hots for Papà,” Fabrizio said.
“Well, remember those old photos. Papà was really fico when he was young. Here, give me the other one.” Enrico fluttered his hand at Fabrizio.
“I thought you didn’t want to read these letters.” Fabrizio handed the other letter to his brother.
My Sweetest Antonio,
I am unworthy of your adoration. But please know this, my heart is true and if it were not such an abomination in the eyes of the church and God, I would profess my love for you from the top of the Duomo in Milan.
Forever yours in spirit and flesh,
Achille
Enrico locked eyes with his brother, and then Enrico shivered and looked away. He picked up the envelope, turned it over, and studied the front. “It looks like Papà’s handwriting. The stamp hasn’t been cancelled, so I guess he never sent it.”
Fabrizio grabbed the letter from his brother’s hand and examined it, then held it up and waved it in the air as if it bore a perfume or an odor. “Wow, did they ever use at lot of drippy language back then, just to say they were horny.”
“You cretino, that’s not the point.” Enrico snatched the letter back from Fabrizio.
“Well, what’s the point, then? It looks like Papà and this guy, Antonio, had a bone for each other,” Fabrizio said. “So what?”
“So what?” Enrico sputtered out the words. “It means that old gossip was true. Papà really was a finocchio.”
“And so are you.” Fabrizio shrugged.
“It also means he didn’t love Mamma, like Tata told us.” Enrico had a tone of panic in his voice. “Their marriage was a lie!”
“There’s one way to find out.” Fabrizio sprang to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
“Well, we can’t ask Papà, so I’m going to ask Tata.” Fabrizio darted toward the door with the letters in his hand. “Come on, you said you wanted to know the truth.”
Chapter Fourteen
NORMALLY OWEN avoided Asian fusion restaurants the same way he might avoid a European fusion or African fusion restaurant, if there really were such things, but he hadn’t picked the place, Becky had. She was a great promoter and an important business contact, but her tastes only ran as deep as shopping mall chic.
Owen was nervous. But maybe it wasn’t the restaurant and meeting the client for the first time that was making him nervous. Maybe it was something much bigger bothering him—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on or name. He had created a new job and identity for himself as an event organizer. So why did it all feel as uncomfortable as he used to feel in that horrible Sunday suit his mother made him wear to church when he was a kid? Suddenly the image of Jessy popped into his mind, always self-assured, always in control.
Jessy and Owen had been the Jessy-Owen duo since that day back in fifth grade when Owen sat alone during recess in the corner of the schoolyard, sulking because his father had left them, and Jessy came up and shared his pack of cookies with him. After that, you rarely met one without the other. Even though many had tried over the years, no boy or girl could come between them. Like the time when Norman Elgin told Jessy not to be friends with Owen because he was a sissy boy. During recess, to illustrate his point, Norman grabbed Owen, put him in a headlock, and told him he wouldn’t let go until Owen admitted he was a fairy. Jessy came up behind Norman, grabbed the back band of his tighty-whities and reefed them up as hard as he could. There was a loud ripping sound and Norman, hollering like he was mortally wounded, released Owen. When the principal heard the commotion and came running, Norman accused Jessy of attacking him.
“No! That’s not true!” Owen yelled. “I started it. I called Norman a douchebag!”
The principal looked shocked as Owen spit out the words, and while she sent Norman home to get new underwear, she told Jessy and Owen to write lines on the board, I will not call people names, and I will not get into fights. Of course, this only served to cement their friendship further.
“Hey, Owen,” Jessy said as they stood at the front of the classroom wiping the chalkboard clean after all the other students had gone home. “What’s a douchebag?”
“I don’t know,” Owen said. “It’s something my mother called my father when he left us, so it’s got to be really bad.”
Of course the story of Norman, with the back of his underwear wrapped over his head, was greatly exaggerated over the years and followed him through grade school.
There was also that time in their freshman year when Sharron, spelled with two Rs, had her thirteenth birthday party and invited all the cool kids, and especially Jessy. When Jessy and Owen showed up at her door, she said to Owen that he wasn’t invited because she didn’t want losers at her party.
“Now, that’s a douchebag,” Jessy said as the two of them turned away and walked down the street. “C’mon, let’s get a pizza and go to the movies.”
But then there was that night during their sophomore year, when Jessy bought a bottle of vodka with his fake ID and the two of them got really drunk down by the waterfront. Owen suddenly kissed Jessy on the lips and professed his love. Jessy kissed him back and affirmed his undying love and commitment to Owen but qualified it in the same breath with the phrase, “like a brother.”
Owen, terrified of losing the person most precious to him, repeated, “like a brother.”
It tortured Owen, keeping him awake at night and keeping him just out of reach of anyone else who might make a serious bid for his heart. Jessy, after every adventure and conquest, always returned to the comfort and security of Owen’s arms.
Now Jessy was finally leaving him, going to California for that writer’s apprenticeship, and this time Owen feared he would never come back to him. He still had Maggie, but that wasn’t the same. He also knew she’d never find a guy of her own as long as he was around. Owen needed to set her free and break free himself.
Owen reached into his pocket and touched the tiny plastic bag. He still had a tiny bit of coke left over from the disco night. He stepped through the doors of the restaurant and went directly into the washroom. He’d do a line. Just enough to take away the jitters, that’s all. He held one nostril closed and took a sharp sniff, then the other nostril—just enough for confidence. A wave of relief shot through him, and he blew out a breath of air. Time to meet the client. He glanced at his watch, then stepped out of the bathroom. There at the far end of the restaurant was Becky sitting with a young man.
“Actually, I’m a special events planner, but I do weddings,” Owen explained after Becky had introduced him and they ordered.
“Well, what do you think?” said the young man, who looked like a poster boy for health tonics. “Will you do it?”
Owen looked at Becky, who was sitting across from him. Her harsh makeup accentuated her age.
“If I understand you correctly, you want an early-afternoon wedding,” Owen said.
“Yes,” Becky said. “With a lunchtime reception because they’re leaving for their honeymoon in Australia that same evening.”
Owen held up his hands and made a frame in the air. “Tim, a twenty-year-old bronze-medalist diver with Neil, his forty-year-old businessman boyfriend, diving hand in hand into a swimming pool after saying their vows.” He nodded. “Becky, I have to say you’re right. The press will gobble it up.”
“I know what the press wants.” Becky smirked.
“This should make quite a splash,” Tim said to Becky, and they laughed.
Owen smiled but didn’t join in. “Was Neil going to wear Speedos or boxers?” Owen’s tone was serious.
“What do you mean?” Tim furrowed his brow.
“Because you also know how unforgiving the press is,” Owen said as he dipped his sushi into the wasabi and popped it into his mouth.
“Ohhh. I didn’t quite picture it that way.” Tim bit his lip.
“Yes, but that’s what makes headlines,” Becky said with a slight shrill to her voice.
Owen swallowed and looked directly at Tim. “It could be at Neil’s expense.”
“Oh no, we can’t do anything that might embarrass Neil.” Tim had a tone of panic in his voice. “I just want our wedding to be special!”
Becky’s overenthusiastic expression soured. She stiffened her b
ody, and her face became hard. “What do you suggest we do, then?”
“Well, your idea is certainly in the right direction, but we might need to consider some slight modifications,” Owen said.
Becky opened her mouth to say something, but Owen continued, “Listen, rather than trying to find an indoor pool large enough for your wedding, what about considering an alternative theme?”
“Like what?” Tim sounded concerned.
“Didn’t you say that you and Neil met at the theater?”
“Yes, the Broadway production of Mamma Mia!”
“What do you think about a musical theme with a backup chorus line and dance routine? It would certainly look less like self-promotion than a swimming pool theme.”
“And where will you create this off-Broadway musical wedding?” Becky’s tone was sharp.
“Right here at the Syracuse Landmark Theater. It’s been restored—faux orientalism, dripping in crystal, gold, and opulent murals, straight from the 1920s golden era of movie palaces—and it’s fabulous.”
“Yes, yes, it’s spectacular,” Becky interrupted, waving her chopsticks.
Owen continued, “We’ll do the service in the theater and the reception in the lobby.” He paused and looked at Tim. “Now, I can’t promise anything at this late notice, but….”
“But what?” Tim leaned forward in his chair with his eyes trained on Owen.
Owen smiled. “Since it’s an early-afternoon wedding, we just might be able to get it.”
“Yes, yes,” Tim said.
“And what about the song-and-dance routine?” Becky said with a note of sarcasm as she popped a piece of tuna sushi into her mouth.
“My best friend is tight with the director of the Visual and Performing Arts program at Syracuse U. And there are two things actors thrive on, an audience and a paid gig.”
Tim squealed with delight and clapped his hands. “Neil will love this. What do you think?” He turned to Becky. “Can we do it all by the second-to-last weekend of June?”
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