by William Poe
Christmas Eve, just before noon, we rolled into Vivian’s driveway. I had given her a brief description of my “traveling companion,” so our arrival wasn’t completely unexpected. Thad would stay in the guest bedroom. I would sleep in my old room.
In the middle of unpacking, I lay down for a minute. Suddenly, it was ten o’clock in the evening. I went to the refrigerator for a snack.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” someone said. It was Vivian. Her voice startled me.
Thad was sitting next to Vivian at the dining-room table.
“Thad here’s been telling me about the ranch where he grew up in Idaho,” Vivian said. “His family owns a lot of land up there. They graze cattle. I was just thinking, if we still had our horses, you two could go riding.”
I felt sure Thad was making it all up.
“Did you know that Thad will inherit money when he turns thirty?” Vivian continued.
Thad did not so much as look at me while Vivian spoke. He got up from the table and walked past me on his way to the guest room. At the bottom of the stairs, out of Vivian’s sight, he wiggled his butt before sashaying away.
“Thad seems like a nice boy,” Vivian said.
“Yeah, he does seem that way, doesn’t he?”
Vivian looked away, not understanding what I meant.
Christmas has always been a miserable day for me. There was the time I got Bride, whose colt Lenny sold. Another was when I was nine and I received a four-inch reflecting telescope, ordered from Edmund Scientific Company. Lenny and his friends calibrated the latitude and longitude on the swivel dial to properly align it to the stars. I was forgotten as Lenny and his pals located Mars, expressed disappointment that Saturn’s rings were barely visible, and commented about how the crescent moon looked like a banana pelted by gunshot. I wanted to see, too, but never got the chance.
After Thad went to bed, Vivian excused herself. “Connie will pick us up in the morning,” she said. “You’d better get some sleep.”
I made a snack of peanut butter and jelly and settled into the easy chair where Lenny had sat during the final months of his life. It fit my body perfectly. I stayed until the last movie of the night ended and a color test pattern filled the screen. I went to my room, avoiding the creaky spots on the stairs I knew so well.
Just before morning, I dreamed I was at the event in the church when Masako was chosen to be my wife. This time, a young man was tapped on the shoulder. The crowd gasped, but Reverend Moon reassured the young man that it was God’s will. The young man and I looked deeply into each other’s eyes. He held out his hand. We kissed. Suddenly, a loud noise woke me up.
“Simon, your sister’s here.”
Connie was with Vivian outside my door.
“I wanted to wish you Merry Christmas,” Connie said. She sounded terribly chipper for it to be so early in the morning. It was still dark outside my window.
“Why don’t you wake your friend,” Connie said. “We’re all going over to my place to open presents.”
“Okay,” I called out. “Thad and I will be downstairs in a minute.”
When I heard Vivian and Connie walk away, I threw on some clothes and went downstairs. I tapped on the guest-room door and went inside. Thad was sound asleep on his stomach with the pillow pulled over his head. I yanked back the covers, marveling at the beauty of his baby-smooth ass.
“Hey, sexy,” I said, leaning close to Thad’s ear.
Thad turned over. He was stiff as a bat. I pretended it was a throttle as I said playfully, “Ready for blastoff.”
Thad shoved me aside as he got out of bed. “I gotta pee,” he complained.
I picked up Thad’s robe from the chair and handed it to him. “Merry Christmas.”
“Yeah,” Thad mumbled.
Vivian and Thad got into the backseat of Connie’s car. I drove.
“This just doesn’t seem like Christmas,” Vivian said, gazing out the window at the soggy landscape. “I don’t like it to rain on Christmas day.”
We were having an Arkansas deluge that morning. I took a long route to Connie’s house, trying to stay on roads that were above flood level. Even so, the last stretch to Connie’s house was a ribbon of water.
“You’ll have the cleanest fenders in town,” I said as the tires churned the water.
Vivian started worrying out loud that a flash flood would catch us, and we’d all be drowned.
“Calm down,” I said. “I can see the road. Don’t worry.”
But water was rising along the shoulder and beginning to crash against the side of the car. The road was impossible to make out as I checked the rearview mirror. I was glad that Vivian’s attention was on the hill in front of us. Finally, we reached Connie’s house.
For years, Connie had decorated an artificial Scotch pine using ornaments and lights she got from Vivian. Many were old bubble lights and antique Santa Claus bulbs that had adorned our trees when I was a child. I recognized the manger scene on Connie’s coffee table as one of Vivian’s favorite Christmas decorations.
My niece, Cheryl, threw her arms around me, and then withdrew to look at Thad.
“Is this your friend?” she asked.
“This is Thad,” I said.
Cheryl extended her hand and peered into Thad’s eyes.
My niece was so grown up that it made me realize how long I had been away. Cheryl was now in high school. I was surprised when her boyfriend arrived at the house and I found out they were discussing marriage.
Everyone sat around Connie’s phony tree as if it were something inspiring. Victoria, my younger niece, opened her gifts of dolls, a play kitchen, and a plastic tree house filled with long-haired gnomes. Cheryl received gift certificates since no one felt confident to buy her things she wouldn’t return to the store. Vivian got sweaters with open collars, because we knew she thought anything touching her neck would cause goiters.
Edwin, Cheryl’s boyfriend, a husky young man who was far too cute for me to feel comfortable around, stayed at Cheryl’s side, keeping a wary eye on Thad and me.
As the day wore on, Thad made friends with Connie the same way he wooed Vivian. He helped Connie in the kitchen and was quick to provide helpful hints to spice up the taste of foods. He even followed Derek into the yard to smoke a cigarette. I saw out the window that they were engaged in a serious discussion.
The one time Edwin left Cheryl alone was when he went out for his own smoke.
“I like your boyfriend,” I said to Cheryl. “He’s a bit tough-looking, but that lisp gives him an endearing quality.”
Cheryl studied me for a moment. “He’s really self-conscious about his voice. I hope you don’t bring it up.”
“He shouldn’t be ashamed. Even Moses had a lisp. It’s a strange little detail in the Bible.”
Derek, who had barely said a thing until then, perked up at the Bible reference. “God would have healed Moses if he had kept faith.”
No one said a word.
Following hours of skirting around sensitive issues that might cause conflict, we gathered for the evening meal. Derek took Lenny’s seat at the head of the table.
“Let’s hold hands and thank Jesus for the food,” Derek said, bowing his head and grasping the hands of those beside him.
Connie dutifully sat on his left side. I was on the right. Derek squeezed my hand as if trying to pump spiritual energy into my soul.
“Oh, Jesus,” he began, “we thank you for bringing our brother, Simon, and his friend Thad from California.”
I fought to keep from bursting out in laughter.
Platitudes followed—bless the food, bless the nation, bless the children, etc.—ending with, “We thank you, in the name of Jesus.”
Derek had a weirdly serene look on his face that turned to indignation as the family began to compete for the bowls of food the moment he said, “Amen.”
“Now you know our tribal rituals,” I told Thad.
Connie passed the bowl of mashed potatoes to
Vivian after she piled some on her own plate. “You have such a strange view of our family,” Connie said to me.
Thad jumped to Connie’s defense. “He’s got unusual views about a lot of things.”
“Well, I’m just glad he got away from that crazy religion,” Connie said. “Joining that group was the strangest thing he’s ever done.”
“And believing that two thousand years ago, a dead Nazarene stood up and walked around Israel for forty days, and not a single Roman historian thought to mention it, is somehow more credible?” I asked.
“Simon!” Vivian shouted, slapping her spoon on the plate with a loud clack. “I can’t believe you would say a thing like that.”
“Please, everyone,” Derek said, seizing the opportunity to display magnanimity. “Let’s enjoy Christmas.”
I thought about the manger scene in the other room, and the plastic image of the jolly man in the red suit that sat on the coffee table. Christians don’t recognize what a drab day it would be if they didn’t keep alive at least some of the pagan customs. Silent night, and jingle bells.
Two days later, when the weather finally cleared, I asked Thad to go with me to a favorite place in the Ouachita mountain foothills. We got up early and drove to Morrilton, the city closest to the Petit Jean plateau where I had taken LSD and psilocybin with friends. We stopped for breakfast at a Denny’s restaurant just off the freeway.
“My buddies and I used to come here to get high,” I said, making sure none of the locals eating their Grand Slam breakfasts could hear.
“Another hippie story?” Thad asked impatiently.
“What hippie stories have I told you?” I protested. “I might go on too much about my days in the church. But I don’t even think that much about my acid trips. Some were scary. Not when I was at Petit Jean, though.”
“Keep it short,” Thad pleaded, flashing his blue eyes as he brushed hair from his forehead.
“Can I at least tell you about the magic symbol I created at Petit Jean?”
Thad remained expressionless.
“Remember the sandstone rock on my dresser?”
Thad took a cigarette from his box of Marlboros and tapped it on the table.
“I carved it during an acid trip while hiking the Seven Hollows trail at Petit Jean. When I held it in my hand, I saw a kind of geometry. I found a piece of granite and scratched the pattern. It was a cross with pits at the cardinal endpoints. A couple of weeks later, I heard the church lectures, which talked about a “four-position foundation” as the primary structure of the universe. I thought I was chosen, and that the rock had revealed a secret given to me by God.”
“Yeah,” Thad said, “and copping a feel under the sleeping bag of the guy next to you was an omen that you really were queer.”
“I forgot I told you about that,” I said, finishing my cup of coffee. “Let’s go on the Seven Hollows trail. How about it?”
Thad looked out the window to view the sky. “Oh, darn. Look at those clouds. I’d say it’s about to start raining again.”
“Okay. We’ll just go to the waterfall.”
Thad enjoyed the drive to the top of the plateaus and had to admit that the waterfall was pretty. The serenity of the place seemed to affect him. I found the sounds of water echoing against the canyon walls irresistible. I took Thad’s hand, half expecting him to pull away, but he didn’t.
“Remember how it was when we first met?” I said. “We held hands like it meant something.”
“It still does,” Thad admitted.
I picked up a piece of sandstone and carved our initials into it with a piece of granite. Then I threw it over the falls.
CHAPTER 17
For Christmas, I gave Thad a Walkman CD player, which probably wasn’t a good idea. He disappeared into his music and said almost nothing during the return trip to LA.
Out of the blue one day, he asked me how much cocaine I had done, and why I had stopped using.
“Cocaine is the one lover a person never forgets,” I said.
“Scott and Jerry offered me some,” Thad confessed.
I’d only recently learned about Scott’s new boyfriend, Jerry. He was a porn star whom Scott had met through the Gay Filmmakers Association, a group he represented behind Maury’s back. Jerry was brawny, muscular, stupid, and sexy—Thad’s preferred type. Until his question, I didn’t realize that Thad knew Scott.
“When did you meet Scott?” I asked.
“He came by the house while you were in Italy, and I”—he paused midsentence—“I went to the beach with them.”
“Thad, promise me you won’t try cocaine.”
“Forget I asked you about it,” he replied.
Every time I came home to an empty house, I was afraid Thad had gone to Scott’s. When I called to find out, Jerry always answered. He’d say Scott wasn’t there and then add, “Thad ain’t here, neither.”
Thad kept coming home in the middle of the night, dropped off by friends. As tortured a relationship as we had, it was still the closest I had come to having a lover, and I wouldn’t press him on it. But I knew the friends were Scott and Jerry.
Before long, Thad began exhibiting the nervous behavior of a cocaine addict. I didn’t want to think about what was happening, so I threw myself into work. There was plenty to keep me busy.
The lease on my Laurel Canyon house was expiring, and I decided to find a less expensive place. The house had been fun, but I didn’t need so much space. Thad was furious. He used my decision as an excuse to make his big announcement.
“I’m moving in with Scott and Jerry,” he said.
“Fine,” I said, storming to the closet and throwing Thad’s clothes on the floor. “Go ahead. Get out!”
Thad folded his belongings neatly into paper sacks. Emotionless, he called Scott’s house.
I carried Thad’s belongings down the stairs and threw the sacks into the yard. Thad walked out with as much nonchalance as he could muster. I slammed the door behind him.
From my bedroom window, I had a good view of the street. Thad stood at the end of the driveway for over forty-five minutes, chain-smoking cigarettes. Not once did he glance toward the house.
When Scott drove up, I hid behind the curtain. Jerry put Thad’s things in the trunk. Scott never got out of the car, but I could see him through the windshield.
I watched until they drove away and then stayed at the window. I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and face an empty house.
Over the next few days, I put my things in storage and searched for temporary lodging. I wasn’t ready to settle down in another house just yet. I went to a complex in Beverly Hills where I had rented a small bungalow during my last few months in the church. Lyle lived with me there. It was the place we were sharing when I left him, thinking that I was returning to the group. Scott and Sandra had dubbed it the Little Bungalow.
The manager didn’t remember me, but then, there wasn’t any reason he should. I was just another strung-out druggie at the time, as far as he knew. He showed me a one-bedroom apartment on the ground floor within sight of the place where a fellow lived who used to buy cocaine from me, and through whom I met bands that played at the Roxxy and Whiskey-a-Go-Go. Sandra used to score coke from one of the clients she befriended and then bring it to me after work so I could sell it at the clubs later in the evening.
Alone in the small abode, I set up my computer and made preparations to attend the American Film Market, which would be held that year at the Beverly Hilton.
My office was on the same floor as Nicolò’s. I noticed that he had gotten a new salesperson—a short fellow in his twenties who kept walking by my office to see how much business I was doing. Rumor had it that Nicolò was telling people I had stolen from him. Quite the irony since it was the licensing rights Nicolò claimed to own that were questionable.
Despite my doldrums, the market went well. Clients whom I met at MIFED came by to finalize contracts. Some new deals materialized.
After
AFM shut down for the day, I spent the evening with clients. A few of them were openly gay. I introduced them to West Hollywood bars. As the evening progressed, they cruised the real and wannabe models who frequented those places. I kept up, but it wasn’t my scene.
Near the close of the event, the president of the American Film Marketing Association came by to congratulate me on establishing a successful company. But I knew what was behind his apparent compliment. Now that I was gaining success, I had better become an AFM member. The Hollywood Reporter interviewed me and planned an article about the spirit of entrepreneurship that had taken hold as new media such as home video revived interest in older films.
The first night after the market ended, I went to the Spotlight. I needed to be among some real people for a change. When I walked in the door, it struck me how the crudest of the hustlers had more heart than the entire lot of pretty boys who frequented Motherload. They might be drug addicts making a living through sex, but it was more honest than the snobs who went to West Hollywood bars and who probably carved notches into their bedposts to record another conquest, only to go to work the next day to rip someone off in a gold futures scam. At least the marketing of one’s own body is direct. A Spotlight hustler does what he does and calls it what it is.
Don and Twiggy were sympathetic when I told them about Thad.
“You’ll find another lover,” Twiggy said with a knowing smile. “You always do.”
Of course, to Don and Twiggy, the definition of a lover was someone you kept around instead of tossing out the next morning.
It felt strange sitting at the bar without Thad. I must have looked glum. Twiggy kept the Boodles flowing in hopes of pulling me out of it.
“Cheers,” Twiggy said, throwing back his own poison, straight tequila—to kill ya, as he called it.
Cheerfulness didn’t materialize. If anything, I became increasingly maudlin. My self-pity centered not only on Thad, but also on the magnitude of the loss I had felt when I left the church. How could anyone, my gloominess told me, understand how much prestige and friendship I had possessed? God’s Kingdom—lost. The possibility of having a family with Masako—gone. To be replaced with what—hustler sex and snorting coke? Twiggy patted my face with a bar towel as I began to sob.