by David Stukas
“Oh, yeah, that one.” Michael swooned.
“That one? I thought you said you did only an occasional cameo role.”
“I’ve done several now. But I really excel where my butt plays center role.”
“I’m feeling in love right now. I won’t even touch that line, Michael.”
“Oh, stop being so puritanical, Robert. I’ve been a butt model in lots of flicks. Did you like my butt in Caned and Able?” Michael asked proudly, as if I spent each night watching gay porn movies about corporal punishment.
“So I suppose you let some guy dressed in military BDUs whip the hell out of your butt?”
“No, not mine,” Michael explained. “My butt was the one you see before they began the caning session. When it came time to whip, they brought out a stunt butt. They cut the camera, I walk out, and the guy who really takes the caning takes my place.”
“Michael, you’re rich. Why do you do these movies when you have a butt-load of money? No pun intended.”
“Robert, for the millionth time, my mother has the money. And she dribbles it out as she extracts concessions out of me, one by one, like some insidious torture. So I have to make some money on the side because I can’t live on forty thousand a month. It’s too confining.”
I interrupted. “Concessions? What concessions? I can’t imagine you changing your behavior for anyone in the world.” I’m sorry, but it was true.
“My mother is constantly trying to get me to cut back on my spending!”
“I hate to agree with your mother on anything, but she’s right. You spend like the CFO of a crooked Dallas savings and loan.”
Michael looked like I had just taken an unflattering photo of him for Out magazine, but said nothing. After all, there was nothing he could say. Michael was trashier than the Staten Island landfill and damned proud of it.
Rex interrupted our derailed train of conversation. “Vince, I’ll go start the grill while you bring the appetizers and drinks out.”
Vince looked puzzled, then spoke. “Oh ... well... thanks, Rex!”
I looked around the table and helped myself to a glass of wine after Vince brought out a magnificent collection of chardonnays. Small talk started around the table and continued politely. I sat there smiling, not knowing anyone there save Michael, Rex, and Vince—and now, thankfully, Marc. He saw my discomfort and began a round of introductions.
“Robert, Michael, this is—” he began, but was interrupted by a huge explosion off to the side of the pool. We all jumped like hypercaffeinated rabbits, and Rex, who was walking toward us at the moment all hell busted loose, hit the pool deck like a trained Marine.
It seemed like an eternity before anyone left their crouching positions to see what had happened. As we got over our shock, we turned to see Rex getting up, blood streaming from his elbows, knees, and chin. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but neither was what was behind him: what was left of the stainless (and imaginably expensive) built-in outdoor grill was engulfed in flames.
“Boy, Vince should go easy on the jalapeños,” I joked, trying to relieve the graveness of the situation.
No response. Everyone was too stunned. Vince, always the restorer of order, motioned for me to go out and help Rex up while he ran inside and got a fire extinguisher. “I’ve already called the police and the fire department,” he said over his shoulder.
I ran to help Rex up and steady him. I immediately saw that he was crying uncontrollably. I didn’t know what to do, so I put my arms around him, his waterworks running onto my shirt like the East River. As he sobbed and sobbed, Vince ran by, stopping to pat Rex on the head with a “there, there” moment of tender sympathy, then dashed to the grill, trained the nozzle of the extinguisher on the flame-broiled grill, and unleashed a torrent of white, gassy blast, putting the flames out in a matter of a few seconds. The grill looked like it had been hit by a Scud missile; its twisted lid lay some distance away at the bottom of the pool. The pool deck and even parts of the yard were scattered with pieces of chicken. It never rains in California in the summer, they say, but sometimes you can get a brief shower of chicken. Followed by a downpour on your shoulder from a big, strong man.
I continued to hold Rex for some time, that is, until the tremors from his sobbing stopped. I helped him over to the lunch table, where he sat down. Michael, true to form, didn’t lift a finger to help.
Vince examined the grill fully, checking to make sure the fire was completely out. Then he put the extinguisher down and joined us. “Rex, I’ll go get some disinfectant for those cuts. Maybe he should have a glass of wine just to calm things a bit,” he suggested before he clinked and clanked into the house, his body jewelry bobbing back and forth in the sun like a dozen sailboats in a sea of flesh.
“I am not going to let those sons of bitches scare me out of the greatest coup of my life! Over my dead body!” Rex declared emphatically, banging his fist on the table for extra emphasis.
The guy sure loved banging his fist on tables.
The bitchy queen, whose name I was about to learn in a matter of seconds, peered over at Rex as if he were a pathetic fool and said, “Over your dead body? My goodness, Rex, wise up. I think that’s their plan!”
“My God, Colorado, you can be so cold sometimes—no, make that all the time!” Marc shouted angrily at the puff adder in his tacky clothing.
“My dear, I’m only saying what seems obvious to everyone here at the table. You’re going to fault me for telling the truth?” he hissed back at Marc.
“Colorado, shut the fuck up, will ya?” Marc fired back. “No one wants to hear your goddamned bitchy comments right now.”
Colorado looked surprised that anyone on this earth not wearing a crown should talk to him in this manner. He folded his arms, lit another cigarette, and poured himself another glass of wine.
Colorado is what Monette called a human Cuisinart—a bitchy queen who will slice and dice anyone unfortunate enough to step in the way of the whirling blades of her tongue. This one was a doozy. His short hair was dyed that ashen dog-doo white that even Annie Lennox abandoned a decade ago. Although the rest of humanity had moved past Y2K years ago, Colorado still put styling mousse in his hair in order to punk it up on top. He seemed completely unaware that the hairdo of the moment was the circuit-boy close-crop with the tiny Pee-Wee Herman flip in the front. Colorado wore at least a dozen gold neck chains dangling various pendants and an unbuttoned microfiber short-sleeved shirt in Day-Glo colors, complimented by microfiber red pants. It looked like he bought his wardrobe at McDonald’s. This was no Hawaiian-shirt-wearing queen who would don funny hats in gay bars on Easter Sunday and hurl catty insults at others. This queen was as deadly as a coral snake—and dressed like one, too. I suppose the garish colors Colorado wore were an attempt to get attention from a world still clinging mercilessly to black, but I noticed that nature also colored its most lethal creations brightly as a warning to others. Why is it that people never see these unmistakable don’t-touch signs?
While Marc’s angry outburst had temporarily shut Colorado up, I knew it wouldn’t last long. The tongue that tasted blood would soon be out for more.
Vince soon returned and began pampering Rex’s battle scars with disinfectant and bandages—just about the same time that three police cars came screaming in through the open gates of the compound, followed by a huge fire truck, its sirens wailing like an opera diva with a too-small dressing room. Kathleen Battle to the rescue.
Within minutes the police were swarming over the grounds, while the firemen examined the grill like they would a routine car-becue on the freeways of nearby Los Angeles. They poked the grill, examining its innards, trying to figure out what sent those flightless chicken breasts into orbit.
While two of the policemen talked to the firemen—whom, I noticed, Michael was watching intently—the third came up to Rex and sat down next to him. It was none other that Sergeant Big Arms.
“Someone’s trying to scare the shit of out of you, huh? Th
ird time’s a charm?” he said, actually getting a few laughs out of the table, whereas a few minutes ago my little joke had produced none. I guess it’s all in the timing.
Of course, you’re more likely to get a laugh—or anything you want—if you’re a bona fide cop wearing a uniform that clings tighter to your bruiser body than Saran Wrap. Having a rather substantial tattoo on a bicep the size of most people’s head will get you a few coerced laughs, numerous dates, or a Mercedes SUV.
“Scare me? They just tried to kill me!” Rex stammered. “But I’m not giving in ... never.”
“Mr. Gifford, I don’t think that whoever is behind this is trying to kill you . . . yet. Kill you, and they have nothing to leverage. No one’s going to pay them if they kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, if you follow.”
While Sergeant Big Arms’ conclusion seemed to make us feel that murder had been again forestalled, it sent a chill up my spine that perhaps attempt number four would be successful. I began wondering if there were any rooms available at the Motel 6 down the road.
“Mr. Gifford,” Sergeant Big Arms continued, “I believe that these attempts on your life are just that—attempts. They may seem well planned, but to tell you the truth, they’re sloppy. Rolling a boulder at you? C’mon. And the palm tree? If they wanted you dead, they wouldn’t miss. These attempts are meant to scare you into paying them off. Plus, if they murder you, they’re facing first-degree murder charges, which are a lot more serious than trying to extort money, no matter how large the figure.”
The table, who listened with rapt attention, seemed to feel a little better upon hearing Sergeant Big Arms’ theory—like a turkey discovering that Thanksgiving was still three weeks away.
Sargeant Big Arms continued. “I’m going to have an officer on your grounds for the next few days. Twenty-four-hour protection—starting right now.”
“Starting now?” Rex asked with strained elation.
Having a cop on the grounds, I surmised, would certainly put a damper on nude sunbathing and screwing poolside. But I was wrong about Rex’s hesitation.
“That makes me feel a lot safer, Sergeant,” Rex confessed, “but you must keep this a secret. I can’t have this leaking out to my competition, or it could ruin me!”
“We’ll keep as low a profile as possible, but we want your attacker to know that we’re here.”
“I appreciate your help, Sergeant. My associates and I have a lot of work to do before the Red Party opens on Thursday. My associates,” he said, sweeping his hand toward the gang seated at the table, “won’t have trouble getting in and out of the compound, will they?”
“No, the only one we want to prevent getting in is your assailant,” Sergeant Big Arms commented. “Anyone wanting to enter the grounds will be searched and must be okayed before they’re allowed to enter. Feel better?”
Rex looked immensely relieved. “Much! Now maybe we can get our minds back on throwing the greatest party the world has ever known.”
Rex’s associates applauded mildly, their enthusiasm tempered by a fireman who approached us with a worried look on his face and a sorry-looking piece of black pipe in his hands.
“So what do we have here, Jim?” Sergeant Big Arms asked.
“I’d like to know how old this grill is,” Jim said.
Sergeant Big Arms turned to Rex, who turned to Vince for the answer.
“Rex, we just got that put in last fall, didn’t we?” Vince asked.
“It seems like so long ago. Yes, I guess you’re right. The first meal you grilled on it was for Halloween.” After determining the age of the grill, Rex looked up at the fireman. “Why? Does it matter?” he asked.
“A great deal. If you had told me that the grill was, say, eight years old, I’d probably say that the desert heat and lack of humidity had dried out the propane supply hose, which leaked gas into the compartment beneath the grill until enough of it escaped and came in contact with the flames above and kapow!” he said, waving his arms skyward in imitation of the grill and the chicken.
“Now that you know that the grill was almost new, what would you say then?”
The fireman answered without having to think about his answer. “That it was tampered with.”
Vince, who seemed to be fighting the obvious truth almost as energetically as Rex, searched for a logical explanation for exploding outdoor grills—besides extortion or murder. “But how do you know that it wasn’t improperly installed? Or maybe the hose was loose or something.”
“Because these propane tanks are now built so they don’t release gas unless the hose is fastened tightly to the tank.”
“Maybe the tank was leaky.”
“Nope,” said the fireman, again without an ounce of doubt.
“How do you know?” Vince asked again. “I mean, don’t get me wrong Mr., er . . .”
“Bud.”
“Thank you—Bud. I’m not questioning your training. I just want to understand what’s going on here.”
“Me, too. I wouldn’t be standing here in ninety-degree heat in these overalls unless me and my buddies were after the same thing.”
“Oh, I think you look wonderful in your overalls,” Michael added, then under his breath, but not so low that those seated near him could not hear, “which I’d love to be all over me!”
The fireman—excuse me, Bud—smiled at the first part of Michael’s comment, ignored the second part (which you could tell he heard), then continued. “If you look at this delivery hose, you can see that it’s burnt more in this area than the other lengths, leading us to conclude that . . . ?” Bud asked as if we were supposed to supply the answer.
“Because it’s made of a more flammable material,” came one answer.
“Because it was nearer the fire,” came another.
While these answers were fallacious, Michael’s was so far off that it was no wonder that his mother had to keep donating building funds to the private college Michael attended so he could earn his degree. Or should I say, buy it. “Because black absorbs heat and that made it the hottest. I know this for a fact since I wear a lot of black, and it can get really hot in summer!”
Even Bud was stunned by Michael’s answer. Bud stared up into the clear blue sky and probably hoped that Michael wasn’t a member of any engineering team that built bridges and tunnels in California. “No to all your answers.”
Before Bud could give us the correct answer, I, a person who knew that yak milk was pink, as well as a million other useless facts, blurted out my answer.
“That spot that you pointed out was where the gas leaked from the hose, so when the compartment caught fire, that spot burned the longest, so it’s charred the most. In fact,” I said, getting up and examining the hose up close, “this weird ridge on that part of the hose indicates that the hose was probably slit with a sharp object, so when the hose caught fire, the portion on each side of the slit melted and curled back, leaving a deeper ridge in the hose than the slit itself.”
Bud looked amazed. “That’s exactly right. You can go sit down now—this is my show and I don’t share the spotlight easily. Plus, this is definitely a tough audience,” Bud said.
We had a fireman with a sense of humor. I was impressed.
“This man is correct. The hose was cut here in the middle, and I think that it was done deliberately.”
“And your reason?” Sergeant Big Arms inquired.
“Because if the hose had been damaged when it was installed, you would’ve had an explosion long before now. And I suppose that you use the grill frequently?”
“All the time,” Vince confessed.
“So there. And as for the propane tank, it sits in a separate compartment than the hose, and it didn’t detonate—which, if it did, you’d have known it. If these tanks get very rusty, they can leak, but yours is brand-new. Leaks also leave a frosty residue near the leak, none of which is present on your tank. End of investigation. Sergeant, I’ll give you a copy of my report in a few minutes and you ca
n add it to yours.”
Bud went back to the grill to check over a few things and add it to his report. Michael decided to get up from his place at the table and seat himself next to me.
“Yes, Michael?” I asked, knowing exactly what he was up to. “You saw that my knowledge impressed Bud, and you want me to use my in to Bud—which is tenuous at best—so you can do a quick pressure test on his hose, right?”
“Something that like,” he assented.
“I can’t believe you, Michael!” I said in an agitated whisper. “You come here because you said Rex was sex personified. Then, as soon as you arrive at Rex’s house, you start salivating all over Sergeant Big Arms. Now you’ve got your sights set on Bud. I can’t believe your lack of morals. What happened to Rex?”
“All this murder stuff is becoming a real hard-off Plus, he cries too much.”
There was Michael’s theory to dating. His interest in certain men lasted about as long as an ejaculation. As Mae West once said, find ‘em, fool ’em, and forget ’em.
“So what’s the big deal with the fireman? I thought cops were your fetish.”
“No, all guys in uniforms—unless it’s a Salvation Army uniform. Cops, firemen, garbage men.”
“Garbage men?” I asked, completely astonished. “What’s so sexy about that?”
“The orange uniforms, stupid!” he replied.
I think that the kettle just got called black by the pot.
“Michael, I can’t find anything even remotely erotic about a guy who has three teeth and smells like certain parts of New Jersey.”
“Jesus, Robert. I wouldn’t have sex with someone like that! God! No, when I get a guy with a killer body, I make him wear the orange uniform. That’s sexy.”
“But the uniform seems so unnecessary, Michael. You could put a guy with a body like that into burgundy polyester Sans-a-Belt pants and he’d still look sexy.”
“You just can’t understand the erotic power of a uniform until you wear one. Give it a try sometime; you don’t know what you’re missing. That’s why I have an entire closet full of uniforms.”