by David Stukas
A driver who wasn’t watching what was lying in the road as she drove the car over it. I now had my confirmation that she had learned to drive a car in some Middle Eastern country where the idea of an automobile hadn’t quite yet caught on.
Monette circled and drove back toward something very large and black lying in the middle of the road. She pulled over to the side and we both got out, the two of us expecting far more exotic roadkill than the rats and pigeons (was there a difference?) we were used to seeing pulverized into the blacktop streets of Manhattan.
“Oh, for fuckin’ crying out loud!” Monette yelled in a voice loud enough to be heard in Los Angeles. “Whatever the fuck it was, it blew out the tire! I hope it’s dead, whatever it is—serves it right!”
“I’m not surprised,” I said, looking at the deflated tire. It had that sad look that tires get when they let you down. “It was huge, whatever it was,” I said, thinking the object in question was one Gladys Whippleman, age eighty-seven, who had wandered away from the Death Valley Retirement Center for the last time. “Since the car’s not going anywhere for the time being, maybe we should find out what we hit.”
Monette nodded her head in angry agreement and carefully approached the object lying motionless in the road, my mind racing to figure out this strange creature. Was it some kind of bizarre desert animal, like a black armadillo or an escaped potbellied pig? Or something even stranger like a roadrunner lizard.
“It’s a dildo,” Monette said, as if she had just told me that today was Monday.
And quite a dildo it was. The size of a small fire hydrant, it must have measured close to two feet in length and had a diameter that was just plain obscene.
We looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“Now, what would a monstrous black dildo be doing lying in the road in the middle of the day?” I asked.
Monette couldn’t take her eyes off the thing. “Maybe it’s God’s way of saying ‘Welcome to Palm Springs.’ I was warned that some pretty outrageous stuff goes on here, especially during White Party.” Monette took a pause; then her mind changed gears. “What I can’t get over is that it’s just so . . .”
“Big?” I suggested.
“No, incongruous,” she said.
It was the perfect—and only—word to describe the situation. Here in the street, in front of suburban ranch homes with perfectly manicured green lawns and tidy sidewalks, was a behemoth latex penis complete with balls big enough to keep the object from accidentally slipping into a manhole, let alone an orifice.
“Maybe Madonna’s in town,” I suggested.
“No, I got it!” Monette ejected, the tone of her voice saying that she had solved the mystery and we were about to hear the stunning answer. “Two gay men—a couple—are having a fight in their car. The one says he’s not going to play second fiddle to Mr. Fireplug anymore. He takes the creature and heaves it out the window, much to his lover’s dismay. Case solved.”
“You’re not fooling me, Monette. You saw this exact same thing in an episode of Murder She Wrote, didn’t you?”
“I’ve got to take a picture of this!” Monette exclaimed, running back to the car and fetching her camera. She snapped a few pictures as cars passed and slowed down to see what was lying in the road. When they got close enough to discern that this was no ordinary roadkill, the drivers would hit the gas, trying to spare the wife and kids from the imposing monster. I could hear the conversations now.
“Daddy?” little Sybil asked.
“Yes, Sibyl. What is it?”
“What was that in the road? It looked like an elephant poop that I saw at the circus!”
“Yes, dear, that’s exactly what it was.”
Monette waved at me to get closer to the device. “Get down next to it so I can get you both in the picture.”
Get you both in the picture, I thought. The latex battering ram was now on a par with me in Monette’s eyes, the two of us being photographed by a six-foot-four-inch redheaded Irish lesbian Avedon.
“I’m not going near that thing!” I said in disgust. “It still looks greasy, which I think answers the question ‘I don’t know where it’s been.’ ”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Robert. I’m asking you to stand next to it, not mount it.”
I finally relented, and Monette began snapping photos like a National Enquirer photographer catching Laura Bush facedown in Lynne Cheney’s crotch. No matter how you viewed it, it wasn’t a pretty sight.
“Have you gotten enough photos?” I pleaded.
“I think that will do nicely,” she replied.
The moment she said the word “nicely,” I knew that I had just wandered into a trap. Monette was going to use the photos to embarrass me. We had met in Palm Springs just minutes ago, but she was all ready to launch the first salvo in our ongoing war of fiendish practical jokes. I decided to say nothing and would hope to get my hands on her camera and open the back, exposing the film and her nefarious plot at the same time. She must have read my mind, because she reached into the car, put the camera into her purse, and latched it shut.
We stood next to the car, trying desperately to project our helplessness, which eventually worked when a Palm Springs police officer pulled over and changed the tire on the car, putting the spare on like he had been doing it all his life—which, apparently, he did. I suppose that we could have changed the tire ourselves, but being New Yorkers for many years, it never occurred to us that the car came equipped with a spare tire. When a tire went flat, the solution was simple: pay the cab driver, get out and find another cab, leaving him or her to take care of the tire. I’m a New Yorker! Not my problem!
When the spare was on, we thanked Officer Blake endlessly and categorically denied that we had anything to do with the rubber Godzilla.
As we drove away, we turned to see Blake pushing the dildo off to the side of the road with his nightstick. He had little intention of picking it up, and I didn’t blame him.
Fearing that we might run into more trouble the farther we drove, I agreed with Monette that the first recommended restaurant that we passed would be where we’d eat. No sooner had we shaken hands on the deal than Bathsheba came into view.
We went inside and sat down.
“Tell me what has been going on in your compound of hedonism,” Monette said.
I told her. By the time I had finished the entire story, our brunch was ordered, eaten, and cleared away, leaving us a clear table for discussion. And yes, Bathsheba was terrible.
“So someone is trying to extort guarantee money from Rex, and they’ve made two attempts on his life, huh?” she ventured.
“That’s about the sum of it,” I said.
“It seems that there’s not much we can do right now . . . although . . . although . . .” She trailed off.
“Oh, God, don’t tell me you’re intrigued by this whole situation.”
Monette ordered more coffee. “And you’re not?”
“To tell you the truth, I couldn’t care less. My only concern is that Rex’s assassin might miss and get me along with Rex. Other than that, I don’t give two hoots. Rex isn’t exactly a shining example of humanity.”
“Just do me one favor, will you?” Monette asked ever so nicely.
“What is it? Find where Lily Tomlin stays when she comes to the desert?”
“No, although that would be nice to know. I was thinking of something different.”
“Spill it,” I said.
“You’re sleeping in Rex’s office, aren’t you?”
“Yes. What has that got to do ... ?” I saw where Monette was going with this, and I didn’t like that it involved mostly me. “Oh, no, you don’t! I am not going to rummage through his office in order to turn up something that would shed light on this whole extortion thing.”
“Oh, c’mon, Robert. I’m not asking you to dynamite his safe. Just kind of peek in drawers, look through files—that sort of thing.”
“There’s no guarantee that I’ll b
e there after last night. He might move me again.”
“Then convince him that you’re just fine where you are.”
I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to play the role of Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple again. “So what am I looking for?”
“Anything that looks suspicious. Bank statements with large sums of money being transferred, overdue invoices or legal actions Rex has taken against stubborn suppliers. Partners with an axe to grind with Rex. Stuff like that.”
“And what do I do if I find anything?”
“Photocopy it and bring it to me. There is a copier in his office, isn’t there?”
“Strangely enough, there is. So what if Rex tries to enter his office and finds the door locked with me on the other side and the sound of his copier whirring away?”
“He’ll think you’re making copies of your butt and faxing them to friends as a joke. How do I know? Make something up.”
This feeling of dread came up over me as we left the restaurant—maybe it was the atrocious food. As Monette drove back to drop me off at the compound, we passed the spot where the black dildo would be lying in wait for another subcompact car. It was no longer there. The thought that someone had actually picked it up amazed me no end.
When I thought about it, my life was kind of like that dildo lying in the road. Where either of us was headed right now was a complete mystery no one could predict.
4
Third Time’s a Charm
When Monette dropped me back at Rex’s compound, she gave me a hug and asked if I wanted to go out on the town tonight; I told her I would call her back.
She waved good-bye and careered down the road until her little Metro disappeared—a mere six seconds.
I slipped my plastic security card into the card reader, and the imposing gates magically opened. I headed toward my casita, then remembered that I was camped out in Rex’s office for the time being. So I entered the house and went for Rex’s office. I opened the door, never thinking that he might be working inside, let alone that there would be a crowd there.
“Oh, gosh, Rex,” I said, still quite startled at having an audience. “I just came in to get a few of my things.”
Rex was sitting behind his butte-sized desk, in command of the room. “Help yourself, Robert,” he said before plowing on.
“The thing I am not going to do is give in to this extortionist! Fuck him—or her! Let ’em kill me. The Red Party will go on, and it will be a huge success!” Rex exclaimed as he hit his meaty fist on the table.
I went over to where I had my nylon luggage, only to find that an extremely inconsiderate queen had dropped cigarette ashes all over my bag and had even managed to produce two burn holes. Even worse, the queen was still there flicking ashes from his Virginia Slims onto my suitcase—even as I was digging through it.
“Ah, excuse me,” I said, the anger rising in my head enough to put me within seconds of making him eat that cigarette. “Could you not do that? This is my bag that you’re dropping your ashes on!”
“Oh, sorry, dear,” he said, rolling his eyes and elevating his chin a half inch higher so that he wouldn’t have to look at me. As he turned his head toward Rex, he flicked his cigarette one more time onto my bag in the most intentional act of bitchiness I have ever seen.
My assertiveness training has taught me to stand up in a situation like this. So I did what an evolved, rational, and self-assured person would do: I reached into my shaving kit, retrieved a pair of hair-trimming scissors, and stealthily prepared to snip a small but noticeable cut in the bottom of the queen’s trendy microfiber (why not just call it nylon, people?) shirt. To make sure it was irreparable, I was going to make sure the cut was nowhere near a seam.
Just as I was reaching for the bottom of the untucked shirt, I looked up and realized I was being watched by a man about my age, whose eyes were clearly egging me on to finish my task. If the message that the eyes were telegraphing to me was mistaken, his intention was clear when he nudged his head in the queen’s direction. His body language said, “Do it; c’mon, do it!”
So I did it. And I felt so good, too. Apparently my admirer agreed, because he gave me a very subtle thumbs-up signal, followed by a mischievous smile.
I gathered up a few things and started to make my way out of the room, when my partner in crime got up from his cushy chair and grabbed me by the arm. I thought that he was going to arrest me.
“This meeting will be over in half an hour,” he whispered in my ear. “I really would like to see you!” he said, grabbing my arm again, but this time his grip was surprisingly tender yet had just enough force to make it clear that passion was also at play here.
His eyes locked with mine, then traveled down deep inside my soul. The way he looked at me made me feel that I was about to experience the vapors.
I left the room, stealing one last glance at my mystery admirer. He was looking right at me still. I closed the door behind me and stood there taking short breaths and smiling idiotically to myself.
God, did this feel good!
When the meeting broke up in Rex’s office, I was conveniently sitting in what was left of the living room, reading an issue of Party Production Weekly. Mr. Mystery Man would have to pass my chair in order to reach the lunch that Vince was setting up on the porch outside.
Sure enough, he approached my chair, stopped, and kneeled at the arm and pulled the magazine gently downward to reveal the surprised face I had practiced for the past half hour.
“Listen, if we’re going to hit it off, you’ve got to realize I wasn’t born yesterday,” he said like James Bond to an archenemy in one of his verbal cat-and-mouse games. We each knew what the other was up to. It was just a question of who would blink first. Luckily, he did. “No one in their right mind would read something so boring unless they absolutely had to. My name’s Marc. Marc Baldwin.”
“No, it’s really fascinating! I didn’t know there were so many types of confetti!” I said, offering my hand to shake. “Robert Wilsop.”
He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome—a relief on my part—but solid and wholesome. Brown hair, about average height, blue eyes, and with a teddy-bear-like cuteness. In fact, he kind of reminded me of me. I skated past the narcissistic implications of dating myself (something Michael Stark would do if he could) and pushed further.
“So how long will you be in Palm Springs?” he asked.
“Marc, if we’re going to hit it off, remember that I wasn’t born yesterday, either. Your question sounds like a pickup line.”
“That’s because it is,” Marc added.
This was too weird. I fought tooth and nail against coming to the White Party/Red Party with Michael, and now no one was going to drag me away from this event for all the money on God’s green earth. We were like two femme fatales (is there an equivalent for a male femme fatale? An homme fatale? A drag queen?) bantering with smart-aleck questions and responses learned from some tough scrapes of a life living by your wits on the streets of New York. I loved it!
“Well, what are you waiting for?” I asked. “Aren’t you going to pick up me up?” I quipped.
To my surprise, he did just that—picked me up. He wasn’t Charles Atlas, but he scooped me up with surprising ease and carried me outside. I, of course, protested and laughed my darn-fool head off. He approached the table that had been set for lunch, and then continued past it, making me wonder where he was taking me in front of all these other people. He walked to the edge of the pool and threw me in. I hit the water like the asteroid that destroyed the dinosaurs, sank under, then popped to the surface like a champagne cork, spitting a stream of water for effect. Marc just stood there at the edge of the pool, then jumped in right after me, resurfaced like a horny submarine, and kissed me like Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity. This promised to be even better than my last relationship, to Count Siegfried von Schmidt—a long story. Don’t even ask.
We carried on like lovesick schoolboys, ignoring the crowd, who pr
etended to ignore us. Marc eventually loosened his mouth’s grip on mine and suggested that we get out, dry off, and join the others for lunch.
Marc stripped my clothes off and wrapped a towel around me, then did the same to himself. We exchanged small talk and knowing glances as we drew near the table and sat down. Vince was ever the gracious hostess.
“Just grab a place at the table, guys. I’ve got drinks and appetizers to tide you over while I fire up the grill for the chicken.”
Michael had apparently joined Rex’s crew and was the first to speak.
“Well, if you two are through fornicating in the pool that others have to swim in!” he said, pointing an accusing finger at the two of us.
Michael was defaulting to his usual juvenile personality whenever a man didn’t fall head over heels for him. What bugged me most was the fact that Megaslut Michael was pointing a moral finger at me. It was like Dean Martin lecturing on the evils of drink.
“Michael, I can’t believe that you’re lecturing me about public displays of affection when I know for a fact that just last week you went dancing at Texture clothed merely in trash bags.”
Michael looked at me in horror as if I’d had the gall to consider his sartorial garb questionable. “Hey, my costume was a big success,” he reminded me.
“Michael, I thought that the message conveyed by your outfit was redundant,” I said, lobbing a mental grenade across the table in his direction. “Oh, and since we’re on the subject of trash, I saw you get your butt beat last night.”
Michael looked at me quizzically. “I didn’t leave the door to the casita open, did I?”
“No, I mean your debut on the silver screen. Caned and Able?”
“Is that the one where I’m taken to this abandoned bomb shelter by six California Highway Patrol cops and forced to lick their motorcycles clean?”
“No, but now that you mentioned it, you will have to tell me about that one some snowy Christmas Eve. No, this is the one where Corporal Punishment discovers that there’s cum on your combat boots, and he wants to know how it got there.”