Look Away Silence

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Mother,” I said. “May I introduce you to my friend, Matt?”

  Mother’s face broke into a clownish smile. She raised her tattered begloved hand for my caress. Matt looked away — nerves bubbling. Drag queens might have been his discomfort zone — at least seventy-year-old chicken-boned crones like Mother. I learned that some gay men shunned drag queens, perhaps sensing their own inner Ethel Merman wanting to pop out and sing That’s Entertainment. This reaction was not unique.

  “Matt?” I nudged.

  “Glad to meet you, Miss.”

  “It’s Mother,” croaked The Cavern’s icon. “Make yourself at home. Mi casa is su casa.”

  Mother had somehow made the place her own over the years, the poor dear. I knew she would launch into a history of Long Branch and the good old days when the boardwalk stood proud over the gay community, who frolicked under it. However, Matt already drifting away. I nodded to Mother, and then nudged Matt along the bar.

  “What’ll you have?” I asked.

  “Corona with lime,” Matt said. “And I’m paying.”

  I grinned. Was this to be my Sugar Daddy for the evening — Computer Programmer cash? Merry Christmas, Martin.

  “Teddy, a Corona with lime and my usual.”

  My usual changed from season to season, but it was, if I recall at the time, a thing called a Suffering Bastard — a double rum and Curacao concoction with more fruit juice than a gay orgy.

  The drinks were duly prepared and served on holiday napkins.

  “Where’s your elves hat?” I asked Teddy.

  He laughed, and then plundered the bar for a pink stocking hat. On him it looked like a head condom. Matt laughed, and it was about time.

  3

  It seemed like an eternity before The Cavern filled up. We drank in near silence except for the occasional comment on the decorations, but how long can you talk about balls — well, the glass kind, at least? I now thought that Matt’s shyness would dampen the evening, but every time I thought to steer us around and exit past Gus the Bouncer, another acquaintance would pop through the vestibule and under the stalagmites. Things became lively when the Leather Santa arrived — ho ho ho. He was in red-coated leather from top to waist, and then wore lacey leggings with his ass hanging out the back, as any appropriate Leather Santa should. His beard was not the fake department store variety. It was real and as white as . . . well you get the idea. When he bounced through the foyer, his pack of porn calendars on his back, the place exploded in laughter. Christmas was here at last. Even Matt roared at the sight. Although, how much was soulful glee and how much Corona with lime, I couldn’t fathom.

  “C’mon,” I said, pulling Matt off his too permanent stool.

  “What? Where?”

  “The back bar. Santa wants to take a picture of us.”

  “I don’t photograph well.”

  “Hell. We all look like shit when sitting on Leather Santa’s lap.”

  A queue had already formed and the music had changed to Deck the Hall with Balls of Folly.

  “And what should Santa bring you, little boy?”

  I giggled, Santa’s bony knee up my ass, and Matt blushing on the other knee.

  “A vacuum broom. And it better have all the attachments.”

  Flash.

  “Oh, attachments,” Santa roared. “And what might you be doing with those attachments?”

  “Never you mind,” I said, standing abruptly — so abruptly, Santa’s other knee gave way, Matt sliding to the floor, his cowboy hat flying off. Mother retrieved it. She donned it and on her, it was the stuff of nightmares.

  “Did you lose this?” she asked.

  Matt’s good spirits fled. He snapped it off Mother’s head, brushed it off (the hat, not the head) and rushed back to the front bar. I shrugged, and then followed.

  I fully expected that he would be gone. Why do I pick these guys? Where did they come from? I gather them like moss on a log.

  I got to the edge of the empty dance floor, and then halted. My flighty Texan hadn’t fled. In fact, he seemed as companionable as ever at the bar and with . . . Russ, who flitted in the shadow of Customer Chris, who from a distance bookmarked the stalagmites.

  “Is that your date du jour?” came a voice, a rather masculine voice. I knew it couldn’t be one of my fairy companions.

  “Of course that’s our Martin’s latest squeeze,” came a silkier voice.

  I turned. It was my favorite ladies, if ladies you could call them — Ginger and Leslie. We hugged. Ginger, she of the deep voice and butch hair and beer belly, was less a hug than a tackle. However, Leslie’s stylish coif tickled my nose. I had known these two forever — or at least it seemed so. They both sang in the Errata Erastes Choir — Leslie a soprano — Ginger, bass.

  “Which one?” Ginger asked. “The tall drink of water or the cowboy?”

  “That’s no question,” Leslie said. “The cowboy. We didn’t bring our Martin up to use a stepladder in bed. Besides, he’s more Russ’ type. Right?”

  “Correct, you are,” I chirped.

  “Well, he’s cute,” Ginger said.

  “Like you would know,” Leslie chimed in. “If he had tits, you might dance a hoe down there, but he’s definitely mucho macho, with that shadowy chin and those . . .”

  “Dreamy eyes,” I said. “But I’m afraid he’s broken.”

  Ginger tugged my waist, nearly breaking my back.

  “They’re all defective.”

  “At least, the ones you’ve picked up.”

  “Standard fare for you, Martin dear.”

  “Why should you be surprised?”

  I pulled away.

  “Stop it. It’s Christmas and I won’t be denied my New Year’s broken heart.”

  “So you’re getting all the way to New Years?” Ginger asked.

  “Shush, Ginger,” Leslie said. “He’s been known to get as far as Three King’s Day.”

  They roared, but went suddenly demure, gathering me close.

  “Queens at ten o’clock,” Ginger said.

  I followed her finger, and sure as hell, in came three of the most obnoxious members of the Jersey Sparrows — from their Pennsylvania nest. Todd Moorehouse, a professional type and snob, his anti-Christ side kick, Padgett Anderson, a hair-dresser of tri-state renown, and Mortimer Levine, an unproduced playwright, although you’d think he was Edward Albee, if you believed what he told you. They strutted into The Cavern as if they were bats and owned the crevices. Guano, I thought. They immediately pranced toward Matt with all the élan of Eleanor Roosevelt in New Guinea.

  “You should save him,” Ginger said.

  “If Todd gets his ear, he won’t be able to hold up that cowboy hat.”

  I didn’t need to be told twice. The other chorus members were closing in also. They must have come in a choral caravan. They traipsed across the threshold in duos and trios, all sizes, shapes and degrees of camp. However, my concern was my date. I wouldn’t mind Matt joining the chorus, if he could sing, but Todd, Padgett and Mortimer were a troika from the Otterson clan, a rich New Birch entrepreneur, who, in my personal opinion, should stay in Oz and await a house to fall on him. I had my experiences with that coven. I got to the bar just as Todd opened his chubby mouth.

  “Todd,” I said.

  Padgett flanked me, and then reached behind toward Matt.

  “Who do we have here?” Paddy asked.

  Matt was talking about life in Melrose with Chris the Customer, but Padgett interrupted him mid-sentence. Matt stammered.

  “Christmas,” Mortimer said. “Bah, humbug.”

  “Just because we only sang one Chanukah carol at the concert, you’ve become a bitter queen.”

  “Become?” Paddy echoed.

  “And I was going to buy you a drink,” Mort said.

  “That would be the day,” came a rugged voice. Ginger.

  “Ah, the bulldogs are here.”

  Ginger growled, while Leslie chuckled.

  “But no
one answered my question?” Paddy complained.

  “Why we only sang one Chanukah song? They’re not called carols.”

  “No.” Padgett turned again toward Matt, but Russ stepped into the fray.

  “Which one of you knows the line-up?” he asked.

  “That would be me,” Todd said.

  “Don’t believe him. The only line-up he knows was after that raid in Baghdad.”

  “Now, don’t knock it,” Todd said. “Iraq had its moments.”

  “Well, if you two don’t know,” Russ said.

  Todd and Padgett gave each other their usual withering glance. I never understood them. They were like oil and water, but were inseparable, always feeding off their essential differences. I guess they were a microcosm of the world, and thus we orbit. In either event, they marched to the small dance floor, calling the rest of the choir to attention.

  “They’re sure jittery,” Matt said.

  “That they are, love.”

  I remembered that he smiled, a foam mustache hugging his bristling upper lip. I wanted to lick that foam away. Here was a stranger. They don’t know ya. They don’t wanna know ya. In fact, he was stranger than other strangers that I had met — an out of towner. A professional man. A cowboy and as skittish as a pancake on a grill. Still, I was a sucker for his lips, although we hadn’t locked them together yet. A thought crossed my mind — dump the chorus tonight. They don’t really need my solo. Russ could sing it or Jasper. Jasper was just itching for it.

  “Martin,” Padgett called. “Are you a part of this chorus or not?”

  Not. But, yeah. And who died and left Padgett director. The director hadn’t arrived, and probably wouldn’t. He often let us sail without him at impromptu gigs.

  “I guess you’ve got to line up,” Matt said.

  “Do you sing?”

  “Like a frog.”

  “A bass. Come join us.”

  “You’d be sorry. And if I do, not tonight.”

  I gazed at the double line that mottled across the dance floor. There they were — Padgett, Todd, Mortimer, John (in full drag), Jasper (hoping, no doubt, that I had a sore throat), Rob and Ron and Ron and Ron (three of them — three too many), Russ and Harry, and Henry, and Brian . . . and Leslie and Ginger. I guessed they were the only Errata Erastes’ here tonight.

  “Go,” Matt said, and then he kissed me. It wasn’t much of a kiss and it stunk of Corona with lime, but it gave me hope that I might get as far as Three King’s Day.

  Chapter Five

  Quiet Moments

  1

  The first two numbers were a bit off key, but I attributed it to the alcohol and the lack of a director. However, the Silent Night, to which I sang the middle verse, scintillated. Smoke be damned, I still managed to caress each note like an angel come to earth. I closed my eyes during the first measure — no director to watch and the choir would need to follow me with their hum-hummy accompaniment. I knew Jasper wanted to push the background up and thus drown me out, but somehow the other first tenors held him in check. My voice soared, and just as I reached my highest note, I opened my eyes and, through the tobacco haze, I saw him — Matt the cowboy, his eyes hung on my every tone. I even thought he sighed — a true fan, won fair and square.

  Suddenly, the crowds disappeared, only he and I, alone and suspended in the midst of this Christmas carol, my voice leading him to a pre-passionate state. I’m not sure whether I could still end the number and return to The Cavern’s cabaret mirth. Still, no song goes on forever. It either finds its cadence or perhaps its coda, but never lingers beyond the last note. As I folded my hands in my ultimate Sleep in Heavenly Peace, I somehow knew there would be a last note. I looked forward to the coda.

  We ended with a rousing Chanukah number with Leather Santa prancing at the dance floor’s margin and Mother managing something like a hora. Christmas became a Jewish wedding. On the last chord, which might have been the Lost Chord for the Lost Tribe, the Zippilin was let loose across the stage, cawing a strange Bruce Q. Merry Christmas. The DJ struck up Everybody Dance Now and five angels in jock straps hopped forward — three waiters, a bus boy and some new cutie, who I knew not. A general cheer went up as both dance floors were jammed with gyrating merriment.

  I waved to Matt to join me. He hesitated, but finally moseyed to the margins, where I picked him off like a carousel ring, pulling him onto the dance floor. Russ and Chris the Customer joined us for a foursome. I was always amused at how gay dancers congeal into this modern version of a reel — sort of a square dance at King Henry’s court, where no one touched, but everyone danced around everyone else. Even Ginger and Leslie vied to make it a sextet crashing through our central core, wiggling their asses with lesbian aplomb.

  The set was endless — one of those Black Box numbers designed to burn calories at the gym. The disco ball glittered and the lasers flashed, and all the while, the Zippilin barked or meowed or cawed. Finally, the dance slowed. I got to try my sultry steps out on my cowboy. He wasn’t sultry at all — in fact, he shuffled about like a klutz. But his eyes were glued to me, and that’s all that mattered. So I wiggled my tush and flashed my eyes. We were all smiles, until my friend John cut in.

  John was a sweetheart — a petite drag queen, who did shows at The Cavern and other venues. He was a weekend queen, never dressing up for work or at home. He was barely nineteen. So, with his baby face, in drag he was a butter pat on an English muffin — all nooks and crannies. Bring the Strawberry jam in, please. When John slipped between us, Matt shuddered. I had a feeling that the drag queen phobia might erupt, and I wasn’t far from wrong. I mean, Matt didn’t throw up or anything, but his shuffle became a syncopated walk. His hands went crabby and he glanced at the bar as if the Coronas were calling him to shore.

  Finally, John began to brush against me and then Matt. I should have known better and discouraged it, but I’m a natural flirt. I increased my swish and soon John and I were in full swagger — girls on the patio sort of thing. Matt stopped still, his face drawn — deep disappointment. Then he fled, but not as I supposed to the bar, but to the back room.

  “What’s with him?” John asked. “Jealousy bone?”

  “I don’t know, hon. I don’t think so.”

  John grabbed me about the waist, and then grinded.

  “He should lighten up.”

  “I think he has a problem with hot mamas, like you.”

  John released me and stopped his routine.

  “He’s from out of town,” I explained.

  “From Mars, maybe.”

  “Now, Johnny, be good. He’s my try-out Christmas model.”

  John raised his hands high as if to serve the cheese or the Baptist’s head.

  “You’d do better with anyone else here, sweet Martin.”

  I looked about the dance floor. These were my sisters, not my lovers. True I had been frisky with many of them, but then they were stuffed back in the pack and drawn out only for color and snappy conversation. I spied that boor, Todd Moorehouse, and shuddered. Now this would be the only new frontier, and I’d rather slit my wrists than be intimate with any of the Roy Otterson crowd. No, my sisters were my friends, not my lovers.

  “I suppose I should see where he’s off to,” I said, shrugging.

  “If you must,” John said. “But if he’s fallen down a sewer drain, I’ll be here waiting.”

  “You never wait long, Sis,” I said, and then darted toward the back bar.

  2

  The boom-boom-boom of the dance floor fell into the background as I explored the back bar. I knew everyone there, so it was difficult to maneuver through the holiday greetings, as slurred as they were. The jock strapped angels were flirting about, serving their drinks, and I believe a bit more, especially that Bobby, who managed to balance his tray despite the many crotch grabs he was enjoying. Working for tips could be rewarding, I thought. The other cutie was also doing well, managing the camera for the Leather Santa crowd. I guess his name was Branch, becau
se there were plenty of Branch, get this shot, and Branch, bend over and shoot this one between your legs. Still, I didn’t see a cowboy hat in the crowd.

  “Russ.” He was easy to find, given the bookmark Customer Chris, whose head scraped the stalagmites. “Have you seen . . .”

  “The Midnight Cowboy?”

  He cocked his head toward the volleyball court. I sighed. It was friggin’ cold outside, but I didn’t want to get my coat. Still, I was obliged to look.

  The volleyball court was strange that night — empty and a baffle for the music. The jollity from the shack echoed across the hollow of this solitary spot. Crouched on the sidelines was my cowboy, his head between his legs, eyes racked on folded arms. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure this man out. No amount of phobia could produce such a reaction, unless he was on something and I hadn’t detected the dosage.

  I sauntered over, towering above him. He didn’t move, so I hunkered down, and whispered in his ears.

  “Noise too much for you?”

  He shook his head, never raising it. This was going to be fun. Merry Christmas, Martin.

  “Well, too much beer in your tummy then, I supposed.”

  He sniffed, raising his head. Those sea-blue eyes were cushioned in vermilion.

  “I’m sorry,” he said with his soft drawl. “I guess I’m not ready for fun and games.”

  “Not ready?”

  He grasped my shoulders, and then hugged me.

  “Hold me, will ya.”

  Since he was holding me, I guess I had no choice. Still, I felt his heart beating on my chest.

  “What wrong?” I muttered. “What’s upset you? Was it John?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “He didn’t mean anything, you know. He’s always flirting with me. We’re just sisters.”