In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  Daniel was at the end of the bar, staring into a gin rickey.

  Mack Dickson was in Section Six, at a four-top, his bubble butt to the swinging red doors and the approaching chef.

  The restaurant got quiet as only New York can get that fast.

  Mack Dickson swung around.

  Chef Som Chai was right behind him.

  Mack Dickson let out the high homosexual scream that gives it all away and ran around to the other side of the table. The chef chased Mack around to that side, and Mack ran to the other side.

  It was a standoff. Mack and the chef, the four-top between them, the four people looking at Mack, looking at the chef, back and forth back and forth.

  The chef screamed, Stop moving!

  Chandeliers swayed. Flowers withered. Ice cream melted.

  The chef screamed: Take this!

  Mack took it.

  Now keep Flesh Fluit Tluman Compotee out of kitchen! Chef screamed.

  JOHN THE BARTENDER asked José the busboy to get him some ice from the ice chest in the kitchen, and when José returned with the ice, José said, A message from Daniel, and handed John a pink envelope. John quick took the envelope, walked to the middle of the bar, and opened it.

  Eleven-thirty-eight: John the Bartender fell against the back bar, grabbed for the draft beer spigot. Beer all over the place.

  John’s head up, facing the Sistine Chapel God.

  The scream: Fuck!

  FIONA HAD A rush of Eurotrash in section One: twelve cappuccinos, twelve grappas neat, two tarte tartins, twelve forks. Fiona put the grappa order in to John the Bartender, set up the neat glasses on a tray, ran into the kitchen, and started on the cappuccinos. I had some time, so I got twelve saucers while Fiona got twelve cups and twelve spoons, and I started with the espressos—two clicks of espresso into the Portafilter, smash down the espresso in the Portafilter, screw the Portafilter onto the machine, push the switch, wait for all the espresso to pour into the cup. Fiona did the jet plane steam milk part. I unscrewed the Portafilter, banged it out into the shit can, and started over—twelve times—Fiona roaring away on the foam all the while.

  Fiona got a big tray, and we set the twelve cappuccinos on the tray. I told Fiona I’d carry it if she set the tray jack up by the table. Fiona said, The tray jack’s already there. I’ll get the grappas.

  Took you long enough, John the Bartender said to Fiona.

  Fiona picked up the tray of grappas and said, I was making twelve fucking cappuccinos, asshole.

  And John said, Spindle your fucking ticket, asshole.

  John handed Fiona her drink ticket, but it wasn’t the drink ticket.

  Eleven-fifty-six: Fiona does not scream.

  THE TRAY JACK was nowhere around the table, and I was standing there with twelve cappuccinos on a tray on my shoulder, watching Daniel fill up my section. Fiona cussed and grabbed a tray jack, and I put the tray of cappuccinos down. Fiona said, Spindle this, would you? and I took the piece of paper Fiona handed me.

  Eleven-fifty-nine.

  Love ya. Mean it. Every woman for herself, Fiona said. Cool.

  Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.

  Ask your Higher Knowing, Fiona said. Obstacles are opportunities. Everything is an illusion, even death. Besides, you need the practice walking naked, Fiona said.

  YOU’RE GOING THIS way and then shit happens and then you’re going that way.

  Mack Dickson and Joanie pushed the benches up against the lockers, so there was a runway down the middle. The chef had Joanie put a RESERVED card on each end of the section of benches. Davey Dearest and Walter lined up the ice buckets for the champagne. On a white cloth-covered card table at the end of the runway was the boom box from the kitchen and the photo-booth photo of Fresh Fruit Truman Compotee.

  The front door was locked.

  One-ten: My triple Long Island Ice Tea was on the back of the toilet, along with the toilet paper roll and two lines of cocaine.

  A knock on the door.

  Miss LaRue! Harry singsonged. Five minutes!

  The fluorescent light from above the mirror made a shadow on my eyes. The toilet was running water into the brown bowl. There were water splashes all over on the sink, a bar of cracked dirty-white soap, pieces of lettuce, pubic hair. The faucet was rusty chrome and the faucet dripped.

  The fluorescent light sounded like insects.

  The paper towel dispenser was empty, but it was always empty.

  Under the sink, a box of Brillo pads, a black plastic garbage pail full of wads of paper, overflowing onto the cement floor, which was painted gray.

  Underarm deodorant, somebody’d just shit in there, old piss.

  On the other side of the door, Kool and The Gang were singing “Celebration!” Let’s all celebrate and have a good time!

  Miss LaRue, Harry singsonged, Five minutes!

  Then, lower, in a voice just for him and me, Harry said, Everybody’s waiting, Will. Are you all right? Open the door. Susan Strong’s got something for you.

  What is it, I said, A razor blade?

  No, Harry said.

  A used car? I said. A Ford Pinto—the ones that blow up when you get hit from behind?

  Will, Harry said.

  An Uzi? I said.

  Will, Harry said.

  Fuck her, I said.

  I opened the door and Harry handed in a brown paper bag. Harry closed the door.

  Inside the bag was a black strap-on dildo.

  What? I said. Did she have this in her purse?

  Through the door: You never know, Harry said. Susan Strong is always prepared.

  A yellow Post-it stuck to the big black dildo: The fates lead him who will; who won’t they drag.

  Fuck her.

  I FINISHED THE Long Island Ice Tea. I finished the joint. I snorted the lines of cocaine. I looked in the mirror.

  On the other side of the door: Horse Dick! Mack Dickson yelled, Where’s Horse Dick?

  A knock on the door.

  Go away, Harry! I said.

  It’s John, John said. I’ve got another cocktail.

  The natives are restless, John said, and stepped into the bathroom. I could smell all of John this close: booze, grease, sweat, Polo. He put a triple Long Island Ice Tea between the empty one and the toilet paper on the back of the toilet.

  John looked in the mirror, said, Oh, Christ! and covered his face with his long hands.

  Fuckin’ hell! John said. I look like shit!

  I never look in this mirror, John said. Everything imperfect is exaggerated in this mirror.

  Do I look yellow? John said. Or green?

  It’s the light, I said.

  John took out his bottle with the black spoon, put the spoon to his nose above his mustache, snorted up the powder, then did the other side.

  This is a dangerous place to spend any time alone, John said. If I were you, I’d get my booty out of here fast.

  The black strap-on dildo was on the sink. John picked the dildo up and turned it around in his hands.

  What’s this? John said.

  Performance art, I said. A little help from my friends.

  You don’t need this kind of help, John said.

  John sat down on his haunches, leaned against the door. Just like that John unzipped my black waiter pants and pulled my Fruit of the Looms down.

  John? I said.

  Shut up! John said.

  I just turned my eyes up to the fluorescents.

  Oo-eee! John said. You need to take this thing out of the barn more often. Give it some air! Take it for a walk around the block!

  In the mirror, what’s imperfect is exaggerated.

  Sure ain’t, I said, No horse dick.

  No, John said. Ain’t no horse dick.

  Then John had my cock in his mouth warm and wet, and there was John’s bald head and ponytail down there where my cock used to be. Then John took both my balls and put my balls in his mouth.<
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  John, I said.

  Breath in, breath out. Can you get AIDS this way?

  John stood up, didn’t look at me. His lips were cracked, bloody at the comers.

  Just wanted to fluff it up for you, John said. You see? It looks a lot better now. Now, what you do, John said, Is you comb back the hair at the top so you can see all the way to the root. Makes it look bigger.

  John went to the faucet, turned on the faucet, waited for the water to get warm, then got some water on his hand and took the warm water and brushed the hair up from around the top of my cock.

  John laughed. I can see you like that.

  I looked down.

  Just keep it like that, John said. Half mast. That way people think half mast is flaccid, and if that’s flaccid, honey, there’s still a long way to go.

  Shower not a grower, I said.

  Nice helmet head, John said. Then: Gotta go now! You look fabulous, darling!

  When John opened the door, the crowd was yelling, Horse Dick! Horse Dick! Horse Dick!

  The show must go on, John said. When you walk, John said, When all your clothes are off and you’re walking back home down the runway, pull your balls up—you got a big set of balls on you—let your balls ride in front of you, so your dick is resting on your balls.

  John kissed me a little on the forehead.

  Then: If it helps at all, John said, I think you’re very sexy. And one of the sweetest men I’ve ever met.

  John closed the door.

  I sloshed down the triple Long Island Ice Tea, stepped into Fiona’s dildo one leg at a time, strapped the dildo onto the outside of my black waiter pants.

  Dildo against the door, I stared at the door.

  All daring and courage, I said, all iron endurance of misfortune, makes for a finer, nobler type of manhood.

  I unlocked the door, put my hand on the doorknob, and opened the bathroom door and—ta-da!—went out and did a Gypsy Rose Fucking Lee that left my audience shocked and breathless.

  But it’s not the truth.

  The Brillo box. I grabbed the Brillo box from under the sink and held the box in my arms the way you hold a bouquet of flowers or a baby.

  Dildo against the door, I stared at the door.

  I unlocked the door, put my hand on the doorknob.

  A ROOM FULL of eyes and about twenty people are screaming, clapping, whistling.

  The hope of theater to lay bare the human heart.

  Chef Som Chai, the Kung Fu salad guy, the other Thai men of the kitchen, Walter, Davey Dearest, Joanie, José and the other new Puerto Rican busboy, Georgette, John the Bartender, Fiona and Harry, Mack Dickson.

  I know everything about them—where each person is standing, how they are standing, how their faces look, what they are thinking, who they are deep down inside.

  Slow motion, I put my arms out, and the way I feel is the way I’ve always wanted to feel and never knew it. It’s the way the ocean feels, rolling rolling, and why birds like to fly so much.

  I let out a big whoop! And I walk on the wild side, I walk shake-it-don’t-break-it, push my hips out, the black dildo boinging boinging back and forth, side to side, into the bright fluorescence.

  Walk the walk down the runway, do a Rump Spin at the card table with Fresh Fruit Truman Compotee in a champagne glass with rose petals on it, sashay back.

  The roar of the crowd.

  To know the power of the dance is to dance with God.

  I set the Brillo box down next to Fresh Fruit Truman Compotee for the juxtaposition. I unclip my black clip-on waiter tie, put the tie in my black waiter pants pocket, pull the white shirttails out. I undo the top button of my white waiter shirt, then the rest of the buttons.

  Fiona’s at the boom box. She pushes the button.

  Aretha: Respect. . . .

  In the fluorescence, unrelenting, dildo boinging up and down, back and forth, side to side.

  The white waiter shirt, off one shoulder, then off the other shoulder, stretch the shirt across my chest, just above my nipples, lift my bare shoulders Gentlemen Prefer Blondes décolletage. Drop the shirt, catch the shirt, twirl the shirt above my head, let the shirt drop next to the Brillo box.

  Raise my arms, Patti LuPone Evita. Underarm ass crack testosterone stink.

  Don’t cry for me.

  Re-re-re-re-re-re-re-re-spect.

  Dildo boinging up and down, back and forth, side to side.

  MY FIRST PROBLEM is shoes and socks.

  I lie down on my side on the runway and pull one leg up to me, dildo boinging and poking up, unlace the black sensible waiter shoe, pull the shoe off, pull the black sock off over the heel. But the sweaty sock sticks to my skin. I roll over on my back—butt in the air, legs in the Air Bicycle, dildo boinging boinging in my face, the one sock dangling—reach up and pull the sock off, twirl the sock around in the air, give the sock a toss. Then pull the other foot down and unlace the black sensible waiter shoe but the fucking lace knots, so I just kick off the shoe and pull the black sock off.

  Then I do an Arabesque and flip up onto my feet from on my back, do a spin, two revolutions around, jump up, dildo boinging boinging, and come down, Crupper Split to a Hip Roll—a fancy maneuver all right and it sends the crowd into ecstasies, but my problem is the dildo boings under me and my nuts land on the dildo and for a while I think I’m going to die.

  From the Crupper Split, I push myself up and lift my body by straightening my arms, bring my one leg through and around, do a back flip to a full standing Stick Ride position, dildo boinging back and forth, up and down, side to side, a life all its own.

  Sock it to me sock it to me sock it to me sock it to me.

  My next problem is to take off my pants and my Fruit of the Looms without taking off the strap-on dildo.

  There’s no solution to this problem, even for Houdini.

  I shake my ass around, strut up and down the runway, bump and grind, boing the dildo, but there’s no getting away from it.

  I got to take the dildo off.

  Beyond, out there, John the Bartender starts in first, singing along with Aretha. Then Harry, then Georgette, then Chef Som Chai.

  I pull the straps of the dildo down, slow, hips back and forth, the way you would a girdle or a jockstrap.

  Everybody out there is singing and clapping. I twirl the dildo by the strap around my head the way you throw a lariat, and I throw the dildo, and the dildo hits Mack Dickson in the head.

  Then I dance, really dance, not no closing-time locals-kicking-up: Joe Cocker meets Martha Graham and Gypsy Rose Lee.

  I undo the top button of my black waiter pants.

  A gasp from the crowd. Cheers.

  I unzip my zipper.

  Do a Rump Turn, three revolutions this time, step out of my black waiter pants one leg at a time, lay my black waiter pants over my shoulder, the Hooker Arm Drag, I shake it don’t break it, walk on the wild side, walk the walk, strut my stuff down the runway and back to Fresh Fruit Truman Compotee and the Brillo box. Drop my pants, my Fruit of the Loom ass to the crowd.

  I do a Shoulder Stand, then back-flip and land on my feet, pull my Fruit of the Looms down over one cheek, then the other, pull my Fruit of the Looms down to my ankles, then Go Under the Belly, head down, butt up, to unrelenting fluorescence.

  Pull my big balls aside, stick my head down there like I can, put my chin between my butt cheeks, look out at my audience, hands on my butt cheeks—spread my butt cheeks wide, cross my eyes, give ’em a big smile, stick my tongue out.

  Who cares what a bunch of assholes think.

  Screams and screams. The crowd is going wild.

  I reach over, pick up the Brillo box, take my chin out of my ass, raise up, turn my body around, quick put the Brillo box in front of my cock and balls.

  Postured disregard, savoir faire, I can fuck you blind and keep it simple, sexy totale. I walk on the wild side, walk the walk, bump and grind, strut my stuff down the runway, sashay, do the Rump Spin, reach in the Brillo box
, pick out a Brillo pad, and throw the Brillo pad in the air.

  Up and down the runway, tossing Brillo pads.

  At the end of the runway, when I run out of Brillo pads, I throw the Brillo box.

  Brillo box hits Fiona in the head.

  Then—ta-da!—all daring and courage, I turn around, face the music, face the eyes.

  I pull my balls up like John the Bartender told me, walk balls out, cock lying on top, half mast, on the wild side, sashay, strut, it ain’t the meat it’s the motion, back to the Brillo box.

  Nobody even looks at my cock.

  IN ALL THE world, I’m the Leonardo da Vinci guy spread-eagle on a stage. I’m completely present, buck naked, original, pure, red-blooded American boy, high enough to think I am New York, out there in the spotlight, my spotlight for life.

  Nowhere.

  Now here.

  Something from nothing.

  Beyond, out there, all around the runway, a semicircle of arms around each other. Chef Som Chai’s got his shirt open, his arm over Kung Fu salad guy’s shoulder, while Kung Fu salad guy does the bump with the Mexican dishwasher. The sous chef, Walter, and José are leaning on each other, barbershop quartet, singing Respect. Harry and Joanie are showing the three other Thai guys in the kitchen how to twist. Davey Dearest and the new Puerto Rican busboy, Georgette, John the Bartender, even Mack Dickson, shaking and rubbing up against each other.

  All of us all one thing.

  Dancing with God.

  Fiona is holding the Andy Warhol Brillo box. She just stands there and stares at me, smiling her broken-lip smile.

  * * *

  ABOUT 2 A.M., Joanie stumbled a bump and grind down the runway. Off with her white shirt, off with her pants.

  Harry yelled, Put it back on! Put it back on!

  Fuck you! Joanie yelled.

  No fuck you!

  Then, just like that, Joanie walked over to the card table, picked up the champagne glass, poured the rose petals out, and with her index and thumb pulled out Fresh Fruit Truman Compotee.

  The tape was over, the champagne gone. No more cocaine.

  Joanie stood like a cellulite Statue of Liberty in a pink bra and pink bikini underwear, hairy armpit, holding Fresh Fruit Truman Compotee up to the sky.

  Joanie started laughing, really laughing, so hard she had to bend over and couldn’t talk.