by Chris Kenry
The following night I arrived on the doorstep of Frank Glory at precisely seven o’clock. I did not knock at first but stood there thinking, afraid of what I was doing but knowing that my financial circumstances demanded that I do it. I didn’t know what he expected, or what I expected, but I was fairly certain that some money would change hands, and that was what I needed above all else. I knocked and waited nervously. I waited a long time and knocked again. Finally I heard dragging footsteps approach the door and stop. I knew I was being examined through the peephole. The knob then turned slowly, back and forth, but the door didn’t move. I could hear someone breathing heavily on the other side and some nasal cursing.
“Push on the door!” the voice yelled.
I reached down, grabbed the handle, and easily pushed open the door, revealing a tiny, exhausted-looking old man who appeared even tinier framed as he was in the giant doorway of the high-ceilinged loft. He was clad in a red-and-black-checked bathrobe, and had oxygen tubes coming out of each nostril but connected to no visible canister. I didn’t know what to say, and just stood there with my mouth open, staring.
“Come in, come in,” he said somewhat impatiently. “I don’t pay to heat the whole hallway.”
I shut the giant door reluctantly and stood there while he appraised me.
“You’re even better now that I get to take a good look at you,” he said, removing, with difficulty, a pair of huge, black-rimmed glasses from his bathrobe pocket and adjusting them on his face. “Splendid. Very nice.” He shuffled his way around me, and I felt awkward and embarrassed, like I was meeting an old relative that I’d not seen since before puberty and they were now commenting, a little too vocally, about “what a fine-looking young man I was becoming.” To break the spell, I introduced myself. He shook my hand in both of his.
“Yes, I know who you are, such nice hands. Come in, come in. You can see I’m not dressed. I usually have a nurse but I knew you were coming so I let him go early.”
I did not like the way this was shaping up.
The loft was nearly identical to Andre’s—one giant room with tall windows, a kitchen off to one side, and evidently a bedroom and bathroom behind two other large doors, which were now shut.
“I tried to get dressed myself,” he said, “but the bedroom door shut behind me and now I can’t get the damn thing open again. All my clothes and the damned oxygen are in there, so if you could open the door now ...” he said, panting, his breath becoming more labored. I opened the bedroom door as easily as I’d opened the front and realized he must be very weak. Then, as if reading my thoughts, he rubbed his hands together and looked up at me.
“Arthritis,” he said.
He hobbled past me into the room, which was dominated by a large hospital bed, and quickly hooked his dangling tubes up to the oxygen bottle, which had, I noticed with some alarm, been running the whole time he’d been locked out of the room. I went over and discreetly opened one of the windows. He stood there breathing deeply for a while.
“So where do you wanna eat?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “I was thinking we could try that new place that opened across from the capitoi—what’s it called, Pinocchio’s or somethin’?”
“Uh, no! I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said. “It gets, um, really smoky in there and I’m sure you don’t want that.”
“Don’t want that! Hell, I’m a smoker myself,” he said, pointing to an overflowing ashtray next to the bed. “The smokier the better.”
I tried another approach.
“I don’t think we could get in without a reservation,” I said, my voice tinged with disappointment.
“On a Tuesday? Well, maybe you’re right, new place and all.”
“What about the Forum?” I said brightly, naming what is possibly the oldest, stodgiest Italian restaurant in the city. The lasagna was thick, the drinks were stiff, and the clientele was ancient. I’d probably be regarded as nothing more than a good grandson taking out his old grandpa. Best of all, it was all but unknown to the gay community, so I figured it highly unlikely that I’d run into anyone I knew.
“The Forum, the Forum ...” he mused, trying to recollect it. When he did, his face lit up. “That’s the place up north, right? Why, I haven’t been there in years. Yes, let’s go there! Come on, help me get dressed.”
He was so small and bony that dressing him was like dressing a small child. It was a bit of an ego boost to lift him so easily and to hear him comment on and appreciate my strength. It was a boost, but it was also disturbing and a bit sad as I reflected that I, too, would be old and withered one day, and I wondered what he’d looked like at my age. I scanned the room for some photographs but the walls and the surfaces of the furniture were bare, with the exception of a small desk in the corner by the door, which was covered in neat stacks of paper and three bound ledgers.
Once he was free of his pajamas, he put his robe back on and led me to the closet. It was high-ceilinged like the rest of the loft, and was filled with row after row of brightly colored suits, shirts, and shoes. Scarves hung like vines from an impossibly high bar to the right, and the back wall was devoted solely to hats and belts.
He walked through the closet muttering softly and pensively, “The Forum, the Forum,” examining his suits. Finally he decided on a navy one with enormously large lapels and flared legs. To go with it, he chose a burgundy silk shirt and a patterned silk ascot with a matching pocket hankie. While I was dressing him it became apparent that he had not worn any of the clothes he had selected in quite some time, as they now hung on him like a child playing dress-up with his father’s clothes. He confirmed this by telling me that it had taken him so long to decide on something because he was trying to remember exactly what he had worn the last time he had gone to the Forum. He had been successful in his search and did not try to conceal his pride.
“The body may be going to shit, but the mind,” he said, thumping his temple with his index finger, “is still sharp as a tack.”
The shirt and jacket cuffs rolled up nicely but the pants hung a good two inches too long and looked ridiculous rolled up on account of the flared legs. I tried pulling them up higher and cinching them with a belt around his torso, but the waistband reached his chest before the hems came off the floor, and he thought that might be uncomfortable after a while.
“And besides,” he said peevishly, “it will make the shirt look ridiculous.”
It was all becoming so comic and sad at the same time that I didn’t know what to do as I stood back and looked at him standing there, sucking on his oxygen, like a pile of Halston’s laundry.
“Pins,” he wheezed between breaths. “We need some pins and I don’t think I have any.”
“Andre probably has some upstairs,” I said. “I’ll run and get some.”
I sprinted from the apartment and took the back stairs to Andre’s apartment, relieved to get away for a moment, but not knowing if I should laugh or cry. I stopped on the landing, leaned over, and banged my head repeatedly on the rail. How did I get into this? I thought, and into it I surely was. I thought of not returning. I’d call and apologize, make up some excuse, say something came up. Then I remembered the doors, and the oxygen, and the fact that he’d let the nurse go for the night and I realized I couldn’t just abandon him. He’d surely do himself in somehow. I had to stay, and I tried to convince myself to make the best of it. I banged my head once more on the railing and then ran the rest of the way to Andre’s, where I stole some pins from a sewing kit I found in the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror, half expecting to see some careworn, pinched mess, but I was smiling, and soon that gave way to laughter as I considered the absurdity of it all. I went back downstairs.
“I’m curious,” I said as he stood on a footstool and I knelt before him, pinning up his pants. “How did you get into your line of work?”
He laughed so convulsively at this that he fell into a coughing fit and had to suck on the oxygen a good thirty sec
onds before he could respond. When he did, his tone was serious.
“Kiddo, when I was your age, about a fucking century ago, I wasn’t pretty. Safe to say I was ugly. And that’s probably why old age hasn’t been that hard for me to take. I was ugly young, and got used to it. I’m ugly now and nothing’s changed—except the lungs crappin’ out on me, and the arthritis—oh, Christ, the arthritis!” He moaned and massaged his hands. “But all in all, I’d say I’m happier now. Most fags can’t deal with getting old. Hell, most people—men, women, gay, straight—can’t deal with it, but I like it. People expect you to get ugly as you get older, and finally people treat me like I should be treated. See, I never fit in as a kid. Not in the gay or the straight world. The gay world was more underground then, but it was no less shallow than it is today. Fags loved the little popsies, and the musclemen, just like they do now. Nothing’s changed. Nothing will ever change.” He paused here and seemed lost in his last thought. I was nearly done with the pinning but pretended to be making some adjustments so as not to disturb his narrative.
“I was the ugly duckling that never grew into a swan. I knew I liked men and I knew most of them didn’t like me. It was hard enough for me to get sex when I was young, but as I got older, it was almost impossible.”
He paused now and his breathing became heavy. I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep, but he went on.
“I was very unhappy when I was your age, and you may not have noticed when you were rolling up my sleeves, but I made a sloppy attempt to kill myself and spent two years locked away in the state hospital in Pueblo.”
I lifted him up onto the edge of the bed and I pulled the desk chair over and sat before him. He crossed his legs and continued.
“After I got out, I was pissed off at the world. I was mad that the stupid, small-minded pricks that populate the earth had almost made me kill myself, so I decided if they weren’t going to accept me, then fine. Fuck them. If I couldn’t be beautiful or loved, or even liked, I decided I’d be rich, and I have never regretted that to this day. With money you can tell just about everyone to go to hell.” He paused and asked me to retrieve his cigarettes from the table. I did so, lit one, and handed it to him.
“So I started opening my little stores,” he continued. “All my little boutiques catering to man’s baser desires. And you know what?” he asked, pausing dramatically. “Man bought! Man bought super-eight films and dirty magazines. He bought filthy novels and lubricants and rubber toys. Truckload after truckload of the stuff. But where I really made my fortune was in the arcades. Who would have thought that all those quarters would someday pay for all this?” he said, and gestured grandly at the loft and all that was in it, which was not much other than a hospital bed and a dresser and a desk, but I got the point.
“Now get me to a mirror,” he barked. “Of course its on the back of that damned lead door.”
I stood, helped him down off the bed, and guided him over to the door and swung it closed. He adjusted his large glasses and examined his reflection.
“I can’t go out like this,” he cried. “I look ridiculous!” I was about to protest, or to suggest another outfit, when he said, “Where’s my hat? This looks like shit without a hat.”
I brought him his hat, a burgundy-banded, wide-brimmed cream fedora, and he made a great show of positioning it on his head, with the overall effect being that of a large, polyester toadstool. As I watched him adjust his ascot 1 realized that no one at the restaurant was going to think I was taking Grandpa out to dinner.
“Okay,” he said, satisfied with his appearance. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
At his insistence I drove us to the Forum in his lemon yellow Coupe Deville. The car had not been driven in months, so the tires were very low, which made it feel even softer and more insular—like we were traveling in a giant yellow marshmallow. I had the valet park the car and led Hole slowly up the front steps and into the dark restaurant, Predictably, and luckily, it was not crowded, and he kept me entertained, over a bottle of Chianti and a huge meal, with bawdy stories from Denver’s past.
After dinner, as I was driving to our next destination, he started waving his hands excitedly.
“Pull over here,” he cried, pointing to the right. I obeyed, slowly maneuvering the car into a space along the curb. We had stopped in front of a grimy storefront, a dirty neon sign proclaiming it to be Adam’s Garden. I shut off the motor. We sat in silence for a moment as he stared reverently out the window.
“This is the first store I opened back in fifty-six.”
I nodded and tried to imagine what it had originally looked like, but then thought it must have been pretty much the same.
“New politicians are always coming in trying to clean up this street,” he wheezed. “Most of them are gone now, but the old Garden is still growing like a weed. We’ll open our thirtieth store this coming year, and you know what? I still do all the bookkeeping.”
“Would you like to go in?” I asked. He thought for a minute.
“No,” he said airily. “I’ve spent enough time there, and time isn’t something I have much of. Maybe we’d better get to Monroe’s.”
I pulled back onto the street and drove the several blocks to the bar.
Monroe’s, as it was called, was a relatively new piano bar that had opened on Capitol Hill. It was a small place with only five stools at the bar and maybe fifteen tables. In one corner there was a massive, white grand piano. It was so big that I thought it must have been assembled in the bar because it seemed physically impossible that it could have fit through the door. The walls were all mirrored, their reflective surfaces broken at regular intervals by framed posters of scenes from the life of Miss Monroe: her skirt flying up as she stood over the subway vent, topless calendar poses, singing “Happy Birthday” to President Kennedy....
Despite all the mirrors, it was a dark place, and the upholstery and carpeting, both a deep shade of purple, did not help. Nor did the smoke, which, as soon as we sat down, Hole took great pleasure in contributing to. Our waiter came by and Hole ordered us both gin martinis. When our drinks arrived we sipped them in silence. The martini tasted good, but I was hesitant to drink it. I was feeling strange, like I didn’t want to get drunk. Like I needed to stay sober in case something should happen.
“Why, there’s Ray,” Hole said, his face breaking into a smile. I followed his gaze to the bar and there stood the young man I’d seen at Burl’s house and at the museums. My jaw dropped, but somehow, after all of our bizarre encounters, I was not surprised to see him. He was now conservatively attired in black jeans and a black sweater, and his hair was, once again, jet black. His eyebrows were dark and thick, and the same small gold hoop glinted from the edge of one of them. Hole waved to him and he made his way toward our table. He leaned over, encircling Hole from behind, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He looked across the table and winked at me.
“Are you here all by yourself?” Hole asked hopefully.
“Nah,” he said, and nodded back beyond the bar. “My guy’s on the phone. Okay if I sit down?”
“Of course, of course. This is Jack, my escort for the evening. Jack, this is Ray.”
We stared at each other awkwardly and remained silent as we each considered what to say. He smiled and extended a gloved hand for me to shake. I did so and was about to say something typical like “Pleased to meet you,” or “Hello,” but when I tried I found I couldn’t speak. I was thinking of the hyena pup, still in the trunk of my car, of the dinosaur tattoo, and of the absolute fool I’d made of myself the other morning at Burl’s. All of these images whirled in my mind like so many beanbags being juggled, and I sat holding his hand, not wanting to let go until I knew more. I snapped out of it, released his hand, and he sat down in a chair next to me. Hole looked from one of us to the other, an amused expression on his face.
They spoke briefly, although I was lost in my own thoughts, trying to slow them down and give them some order. After a while, Hole aske
d if I would walk him up to the piano.
“I know the player and I’d like to sit with him awhile. You don’t mind, do you?”
I shook my head, escorted him up, and then went back and sat down opposite Ray. I was nervous and didn’t know where to look. He stared at me, grinning, then slowly slid my drink toward me. I gave a nervous laugh, muttered “Thanks,” and then took a large sip.
“I’m sorry about the other morning,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I kind of lost it.”
“Yeah, you look familiar, though. Guess I was wrong.”
“Only partly,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “What do you think about people crapping in lunch boxes?”
He cocked his head, confused, but then it registered and he snapped his fingers. “Dude, that is so funny; I knew I recognized you. You go to the Art Museum much?” he asked.
I gave a vague nod. “I also go to the Natural History Museum ...” I said, trailing off. His head jerked and his gaze riveted on me. I studied my drink.
“The last time I was there,” I said, raising an eyebrow and moving my finger slowly around the wide rim of my martini glass, “I stumbled upon something quite interesting. Or should I say, it stumbled upon me.”
Now he was the speechless one, and looked around nervously.
“Don’t worry,” I said reassuringly. “He’s quite safe. Is it a he? So hard to tell when they’re that young. Anyway, he’s been no trouble, quiet, doesn’t eat much, hardly laughs at all. Sometimes I even forget he’s there.”