Gay Place

by Billy Lee Brammer

  “Yessir,” the butler said.

  Fenstemaker sipped his coffee and shuffled papers.

  “I hope it was better than this,” he said. “Siddown and have some more.”

  The butler poured himself a cup and stood blowing on it, waiting.

  “Siddown for Christ sake,” Fenstemaker said.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Goddam.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’m just goddammin’.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Let’s get a new brand of coffee,” Fenstemaker said. He made a face.

  “I’ll tell the cook.”

  “Nothin’ tastes like it used to,” Fenstemaker said. “Not even vegetables.”

  “Sweet potatoes especially,” the butler said.

  “Not even goddam sweet potatoes,” Fenstemaker said.

  The two of them sipped coffee. The Governor turned through the newspapers, talking but not looking up. “You think it’s gettin’ better?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Bein’ a colored man. You think it’s any better?”

  The butler looked at him desperately. “I got a good job,” he said.

  The Governor did not seem to pay attention. He went on talking and turning pages. “Maybe little better, I guess … Discussions goin’ on. … Least that’s not like it used to be. Hell! I remember old Pitchfork Ben Tillman — the things he said …” Fenstemaker broke off momentarily, peering at the newsprint, then went on: “Of course bein’ better still don’t make it very good. I was thinkin’ yesterday, signin’ my mail, how I’d feel if I wrote a public official about, you know, my rights? I was lookin’ over what I’d been sayin’. ‘Well now this sure is a problem, involvin’ grave emotional questions, and we can’t tolerate havin’ second-class citizens in this free country and I’m sure gonna do what I can … Try to make reasonable progress toward a solution … Sure keep your views in mind …’ Why God damn! Some cornpone Buddha say that to me, I’d set a bomb off under him.”

  The butler grinned. “I think most colored people vote for you,” he said. “Even when you don’t say things exact …” He began gathering cups and saucers.

  “I’m a damned good politician,” Fenstemaker said. “I know how good I am and I ain’t doin’ much, so what about the others not so good? Goddam and hell!”

  “You want another pot?” the butler said.

  “Yes,” the Governor said. “Switch to that ersatz stuff — I think it’s probably better than this … And some fruit. They got any watermelon down there?”

  “I’ll see,” the butler said. “They don’t, we get you some.”

  The Governor’s brother, Hoot Gibson Fenstemaker, appeared at the door. He rubbed his eyes and smiled, looking deranged. “You get me some coffee, Jimmy?” he said. The butler nodded, carrying the tray. Hoot Gibson stepped inside.

  “Mornin’ Arthur.”

  “You enjoy that party last night?” the Governor said.

  “Sure did. I like parties here.”

  “I think you danced with every lady.”

  “I think I did,” Hoot Gibson said. “I liked that orchestra, too. It was like Wayne King.”

  “I remember at college you had some Wayne King records,” the Governor said, looking up from the papers. “And Henry Busse. What in hell ever happened to Henry Busse?”

  “He dead?” Hoot Gibson said. He thought a moment. “Hot Lips! I booked old Henry Busse once for the gymnasium. A dance. Made two hundred dollars promoting old Henry Busse …” Hoot Gibson’s eyes went cloudy, thinking about Henry Busse. He sipped from his brother’s coffee cup.

  Fenstemaker looked up patiently. “Don’t make that noise,” he said. Hoot Gibson gripped the cup with both hands and stared at the coffee. The Governor read the papers. Hoot Gibson picked up one of the sheets and glanced over the headlines. “I think I got a hangover,” he said.

  The Governor cleared his throat but did not comment.

  “I might go back to bed awhile,” Hoot Gibson said.

  “Take some aspirin and sleep another hour,” the Governor said.

  Hoot Gibson stood and stretched and scratched himself. He loosened the drawstring on his pajamas and retied it. “I think I’ll do that,” he said. “… You got anything for me today?”

  The Governor looked up and said: “You remember that fellow talkin’ to me and Jay last night? Up here — out on the screen porch?”

  “That new lobbyist?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I know him. He’s workin’ the Capitol nearly every day now.”

  “Well suppose you keep an eye on him,” the Governor said. “Follow him around. Or get someone to do it for you. Find out where he goes, who he’s seein’. Do that today and tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Don’t for God’s sake let him know he’s bein’ watched. Give me a report — and don’t come around tellin’ me about it. Write it up.”

  Hoot Gibson looked vastly pleased. He vanished down the hall, humming to himself.

  The Governor signed some papers. He looked at the clock — it was nearly seven; nearly nine in the East. He reached for the phone and got the long distance operator, making notes of persons he could call in the Eastern time zone. He talked with an economist in New York. They discussed investments; Fenstemaker asked questions about the stock market; he complained that none of the big investors seemed interested in municipal bonds. “I got some mayors in trouble,” he said. “They need help. You got any ideas?” He listened to the economist’s ideas. They complained to each other about the goddam Republican high interest rates.

  Fenstemaker rang off and placed more calls; he talked with his two Senators, a union official in Philadelphia, a college professor in Boston. The professor was a nephew whom he’d put through college a half-dozen years before. “Listen,” the Governor said, “those are wonderful speeches you been sendin’ down — especially if I was runnin’ in Oyster Bay or Newport. But I’m not, happily. Try to remember I’m way the hell down here in coonass country … You forget your beginnin’s? You need a little trip home? Might do you good … I need some ideas … You got good ideas … But I want ’em in speeches that sound like Arthur Fenstemaker and not some New goddam England squire …”

  He completed the calls and turned back to the papers on his desk. An assistant had left him a note attached to a hand-written letter: “This may interest you, though I advise against reading it when you’re trying to shake off a low mood. It is very sad.”

  He read the letter attached:

  Sirs:

  We the people of the 9th grade Civics class at Hopkinsville feel that you the people of the Government should try to conquer the world here before you try to conquer outer space. We feel that there may be some kind of gas on the moon that is under the surface and if a rocket hit it, it may open the surface of the moon and these gases may escape and get into our own environment and kill us. So we feel that you should leave well-enough alone. We feel that if the Good Lord had wanted us to conquer outer space he would have put here on earth instruments instead of people. We would like to know what you think about this issue.

  Sincerely,

  THE 9TH GRADE CLASS

  Fenstemaker rubbed the back of his neck and pulled on his nose and sat staring at the names of the 9th Grade Class at Hopkinsville. He put the letter down and reached for the phone.

  “Jay …”

  Jay McGown’s voice came to him feebly; then it got stronger. There was music being played on the radio in Jay’s room. The music ended and an announcer talked about a cure for piles.

  “Sir?” Jay was saying. “… Sir?”

  “What in hell’s goin’ on there?”

  “Sir?”

  “You think we got a chance on that school bill?”

  “School bill? Sure we got a chance,” Jay said.

  “I got your note and that letter,” the Governor said.

  “Ah.”

  “Let’s take a run with that bill this week,” Fenstemaker said.


  “You think this week’s really the best time?” Jay said. “Old Hoffman’s still in the hospital. We’d need him. He wrote the damn thing. At least his name’s on it.”

  “Who’s that? Who wrote it, then?”

  “A lobbyist for the schoolteachers. A lawyer from the education agency.”

  “Who else?”

  “Me.”

  “Well let’s take a run with it,” Fenstemaker said.

  “Who’ll we get to floor-manage?”

  “Who’s on the committee?” the Governor said.

  “You know that committee better than I do,” Jay said.

  “Name some,” Fenstemaker said. “I forget.”

  “Who you want me to name?”

  “Name some.”

  Jay named some of the members.

  “They don’t sound so good to me,” the Governor said.

  “They aren’t,” Jay said. “We’d probably end up with half a bill. Old Hoffman’s not much, but he won’t lose us any votes. He knows how to manage a bill.”

  “How ’bout Roy Sherwood?” Fenstemaker said.

  “Roy’s a good friend of mine,” Jay said.

  “So?”

  “But he’s not exactly one of our boys.”

  “Maybe he just never got invited in,” the Governor said.

  “He’s pretty damned independent,” Jay said. “And lazy. That’s a bad combination.”

  Chimes from the college signaled the half hour. The highway patrolman polished the limousine on the side drive. The butler came into the room with an enormous slice of watermelon. Fenstemaker broke off a piece with his hand and began to eat. There was a silence on the phone while the Governor ate watermelon. Then he said: “He help write that bill? He do anything at all?”

  There was another silence before Jay began to answer: “That’s right. He helped a lot. Fact is, he was the only one on that lousy committee who gave a damn. With Hoffman gone.”

  “Well old Hoff got it reported out for us before he went to the hospital,” Fenstemaker said.

  “How’d you know about Roy?”

  “It just sort of came to me in the night,” the Governor said.

  “Well I thought you might disapprove. My getting him to help us. He’s a friend of mine, like I said, and we needed some help from someone on the committee. Desperately.”

  “All right,” the Governor said. “That’s just fine. I’m delighted. You think he could carry it?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. He’s never worked a bill in three terms here. I’m not even sure he’d accept the job.”

  “Well I’ll just ask him and see.”

  “You think he could hold the votes we’ve got? He might scare some off.”

  “See about that, too,” the Governor said. He paused, and then added: “He ain’t worn himself out on Earle Fielding’s wife, has he?”

  There was a pause before Jay answered: “That piece of information just come to you in the night, too?”

  “Everything does,” the Governor said, his voice warm with pleasure. “Borne on the wind. Like a cherub. It do fly … Listen … We’ll just see how old Roy reacts. Okay? Take a little run. Pull out all the stops and try to get this thing through. Maybe tomorrow. We can’t afford to wait much longer. They’ll be building up opposition soon’s it appears Hoffman’s well. We put off any time, we lose votes and we lose hard cash in that bill … You want some cash for Hopkinsville, don’t you? We’ll just have to get that goddam thing through in a hurry. Can’t afford to have any great debates …”

  Jay was silent on the other end of the line while Fenstemaker talked. Then the Governor rang off without formality. He dialed another number on the phone and waited during the six or seven rings. He pressed the disconnect and dialed again. After another interval, Roy Sherwood answered.

  “What’re you doin’?” Fenstemaker boomed.

  “Sleeping,” Roy Sherwood said. “Real good, too.”

  “Hell of a note,” Fenstemaker said. “World’s cavin’ in all round us; rocket ships blastin’ off to the moon; poisonous gas in our environment … Sinful goddam nation … laden with iniquity, offspring of evildoers. My princes are rebels and companions of thieves …”

  “What?”

  “… A horror and a hissing …”

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Isaiah,” Fenstemaker said. “The Prophet Isaiah.”

  “I’m going to hang up in just about three seconds,” Roy said, “but first I’d really like to know who the hell this is?”

  “Arthur Goddam Fenstemaker. Hah yew?”

  “I think it really is,” Roy said after a moment. “Governor? That you?”

  “Come over the Mansion and see,” Fenstemaker said. “You like watermelon? I got some damn good watermelon. You come over here and we’ll break watermelon together.”

  Roy’s response was plaintive but respectful: “It’s awful early in the morning for breakfast.”

  “Nearly eight.”

  “I know,” Roy said. “That gives me nearly three hours sleep.”

  “Well, you’re a young man. I needed five.”

  Roy was silent.

  “You come over and talk to me about this bill?” Fenstemaker said.

  “What bill’s that?”

  “That school thing you did for Jay. Damn good job.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. But what do you want to talk about?”

  “About when you’re gonna get off your ass and pass it for me.”

  “Pass it. Hell, I’m just the ghost writer. Passin’ it is your —”

  “I mean take charge in that madhouse.”

  “Hah?”

  “I mean floor-manage for me.”

  “You sure you got the right man, Governor? I never in my life —”

  “I got you, all right,” the Governor said. “Roy Emerson Sherwood. Non-practicin’ lawyer. Family’s got cattle, little cotton. Never struck no oil, though. Elected sixty-third Legislature. Re-elected without opposition to sixty-fourth, sixty-fifth. Never did goddam thing here till you wrote that bill the other day …”

  “You got the right man, I guess,” Roy said.

  “You help me with that bill on the floor?”

  “When you plan to bring it up?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow! Godalmighty —”

  “Day after, maybe. Come on over here.”

  “Governor, I couldn’t learn the number that bill, condition I’m in right now. Let me sleep a little. Just a little. Let me think about it.”

  “Sinful goddam nation … Laden with iniquity … My princes are —”

  “All right,” Roy said wearily.

  “How you like your goddam eggs?” the Governor said.

  Two

  THE TWO YOUNG MEN sat out under the trees in straw-bottomed chairs, barking their shins against the wooden tables. They sat waiting, looking glum. Record music came from a speaker overhead, somewhere in the trees. The music was turned loud so it could be heard above the noise from a next-door bowling alley. There were periods of relative quiet when the bowling slacked off and the records changed, during which they could hear halfhearted cheers from a lighted intramural field a block away, near the college, but the record music predominated. The sounds from the bowling alley ruined only the ballads.

  Roy Sherwood looked around and groaned.

  “You don’t like music?” Willie said. “And a gay party atmosphere?”

  “I like music fine,” Roy said. “I just don’t like these gap-toothed teddy boys raping some old favorite with a chorus of ex-truckdrivers behind them going ‘ooh-ah, oom-ah, ooh-ah.’ ” He looked around the beer garden impatiently. “Can’t they turn it down?”

  “That would be a violence to the whole idea of the Dearly Beloved,” Willie said.

  “Exactly,” Roy said.

  Willie said: “It’s not so bad. What was it Rinemiller was saying the other day?”

  “Rinemiller’s a sewer,”
Roy said.

  “He said it was genuine. Simple and alive and —”

  “A sod and a sewer,” Roy said conclusively. He looked around for the waitress.

  They sat talking. There were twenty or thirty others, mostly young people, out under the trees, sitting at the unwashed tables, and through the windows of the building the boiled faces of some of the old-time customers were visible. It was still very early in the evening: the lights had just now come on, and the Dearly Beloved Beer and Garden Party was only partly filled.

  A waitress finally appeared. She was a pretty girl, wearing a white uniform with a faded checkered apron. She smiled and said: “Ike and Mike — my favorite customers.”

  “Stop calling us that,” Roy said. “Think of something else.” He did not look at the waitress, but gave his attention instead to a group of undergraduates and their dates just now arriving.

  “You don’t like Ike and Mike?” the girl said.

  “It’s just that neither of us wants to be Ike,” Willie said.

  The girl nodded. “You want menus?”

  “Some of the light,” Willie said.

  “How about a pitcher?” the waitress said.

  The two young men hesitated, looking at each other, numbed momentarily by the weight of decision. The bowling eased off some next door. A singer’s voice came to them through the trees:

  Tew …

  Spen’ …

  One …

  Naaaht …

  Wishyew …

  “Let’s get a pitcher,” Willie said.

  “We wait for Huggins, he’ll buy pitchers for everyone,” Roy said. The waitress swayed slightly to the music, looking away, her eyes foggy.

  “You strapped again?” Willie said.

  “No. Trying to avoid it, though. I’m budgeting myself. Watch the pennies, the dollars take care of themselves.”

  The waitress leaned down and rested her elbows on the table. She looked at the young men closely. “It’s only seventy-five cents,” she said.

  “It mounts up,” Roy said. “And I’m out of work.”

  “You make thirty dollars a day, for God’s sake,” the waitress said. “I read it in the paper.”

  “Only when we’re in session,” Roy said. “And that money’s got to last me the year round. Otherwise, I’d have to practice the law. Or live off lobbyists. You tryin’ to corrupt me?”