In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  Comment? Rose said.

  Why not Electra, why not Ariadne, why not Athena, why not Madonna, why not Elizabeth Taylor?

  Rose put both hands to his turban and moved it to the left.

  Are you mildly curious, Rose said, Or do you really want to know?

  Still a half bottle of Graves, two inches left of Bloody Mary.

  I’d like to know, I said.

  Maybe there’s some things you shouldn’t know, Rose said.

  I took my Jimmy Stewart hat off, undid my tie.

  Maybe there’s some things, I said, You’re afraid to tell.

  I was smiling. Stopped smiling.

  Rose’s smile got bigger.

  That one may smile and smile and smile and be a villain, Rose said. I’m preying, I said, For truth.

  The gap between Rose’s front teeth. The inside color of his lips.

  Then: You know I’m falling in love with you, Rose said.

  My heart beat. My breath.

  Rose, I said, Why Antigone?

  Rose’s chin started going up. He folded his Sahara Desert palms together. One huge black fist. He rolled just his eyes down from the ceiling. A muscle under Rose’s right eye, ticking.

  Give me one good reason, Rose said, Why I should tell you.

  I put my skinny pink hand on Rose’s one big black fist. I’m your friend, I said. You can trust me.

  Rose folded his Sahara Desert palms around my hand. Trust? Rose said. In Rose’s eyes, the deer in the headlights.

  Sweet William, Rose said, Dare I trust the truth of my sore heart to you?

  Why do we live except to be loved?

  Yes, I said. I am a Shy Hunter, I said, Also.

  I folded my hands inside Rose’s, like when you pray but don’t stick your fingers up.

  I promise, I said.

  La promesse.

  Then: Waiter! Rose yelled out. Waiter!

  The Peacock Room quiet as only New York can get that fast.

  Two dirty Bombay Sapphire martinis up with olive! Rose yelled. Chill the glasses!

  ROSE PUT HIS chin in his hand, rubbed his chin.

  Antigone, Rose said.

  His eyes moved up to the ceiling, down to the floor, then side to side across the whole room.

  My hands were tight around the Bloody Mary glass. Maybe what Rose wanted to say, Rose couldn’t say yet.

  Then just like that, Rose snapped his fingers loud.

  Let’s say I’m Rupert Murdoch, Rose said.

  Rose picked up the largest silver knife next to his plate. He balanced the silver knife on the end of his index, then let the blade end tilt down.

  And my power of persuasion, Rose said, Is strong enough to convince you that this knife is in balance, even though both you and I can see plainly that it is not.

  Where we get into trouble, Rose said, Is when we are persuaded to see balance where there is no balance, order where there is no order.

  Rose tossed the silver knife in the air, and the knife flipped end to end. Rose caught the knife, and then—abracadabra!—the silver knife disappeared into thin air.

  The element in excess so dominates, Rose said, That it creates the illusion of order, of reality, and we live in that illusion as if it were true.

  When we live in an illusion as if it were true, Rose said, We are actually living in chaos.

  Rose put his elbows on the table, leaned closer and closer to me. We are living in chaos, Rose whispered.

  I started rolling cigarettes.

  Rose held the silver knife blade pointed directly at my heart.

  My entire existence is based on a false assumption of reality, Rose said. My existence is not grounded in my body, my heart, or on mother earth, nature, substance, the firmament, but rather in what I think.

  What is real, Rose said, Is actually a concept of what is real.

  Rose’s smile. The silver knife pointed at my heart had become a silver spoon.

  We are not seeing with our hearts, Rose said.

  We are just Man Thinking, Rose said.

  Rose’s Sahara Desert palm clasped my hand around the silver spoon. Rose put his thumb with its purple nail into the valley of the spoon.

  The female, Rose said, Is the bringer of life from out of darkness. She brings life, but because she gave us life, now we must face death.

  And therein lies the rub, Rose said. Our fear of death has turned us against the female; our fear of darkness has tipped the Golden Mean to allow the male principle to dominate.

  The excess of the male principle, Rose said, Has created an illusion of reality we all assume is true.

  But what we are really doing, what we are grounded upon, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack, Is a monster, the excess of the male principle.

  The way I was staring at Rose made Rose smile big, made the big old liar’s space between his teeth show. Made Rose wipe his forehead with his white linen napkin.

  Antigone had the same problem, Rose said. The society she lived in feared the female as well, for the same reason every mother’s son has ever hated the female: With life comes death.

  Antigone’s brother Polynices is lying dead outside the walls of the city, exiled, Rose said. According to divine law, the right thing to do is to anoint his body, but Antigone can’t because Polynices has been officially declared an enemy of the state. For Antigone, the law of the state is in contradiction to divine law.

  L’énigme! Rose said. The holiest act Antigone can perform as a woman has been declared a crime by the government.

  Antigone has two choices, Rose said: Obey the manmade law, or break the law and go where her female heart leads her.

  The punishment for breaking the law, Rose said, Was to be buried alive. Antigone knew the stakes, yet she chose to tend to her brother, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack. Antigone broke the law. She dared to go beyond the proper place for women, did not give way when everything was against her, defied the status quo, trusted her heart, tempted madness, and went ahead and anointed Polynices.

  Her decision, Rose said, And her action upon her decision restored divine order, restored the Golden Mean.

  Ergo, Rose said, Antigone is a classic hero.

  The lucid compulsion to act polemically, Rose said, Determines the substance of the self.

  Run that by me again, I said.

  By flipping off the law of the state, Rose said, Antigone tempts fate; ergo, she crystallizes her freedom and comes to the substance of herself.

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

  Womanhood, Rose said.

  Antigone is a Shy Hunter, I said.

  Exactly! Rose said. Because she follows her heart despite her fears.

  I was still rolling cigarettes. I handed a cigarette to Rose, but he shook his head no no Yoko Ono, and pulled out a Gauloise.

  Rose, I said, You can’t fool me.

  Rose pulled the match flame into the Gauloise. Smoke filled his mouth. He kept his mouth open, the smoke curling, then just like that, the smoke went up his nostrils, French inhale.

  Fool you, Rose said, Why on earth would I want to fool you?

  Because, I said, You’re a Shy Hunter, I said, You may be talking about Antigone, I said, But what you’re really talking about is yourself.

  Silent. As soon as I said yourself, the Peacock Room, the Waldorf Hysteria, in all the world, only silence. Silence and the breath of air and smoke exhaled from Rose’s nose.

  Then: My dear William of Heaven, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack.

  Well put, Rose said.

  ROSE AND I were on cigars and cognacs when Ramon set the check down on the table—exactly in the middle of the white tablecloth. Just like that, Rose’s Sahara Desert palm covered the leatherette folder and pulled the folder to his side of the table.

  That was it right then.

  Just like that, the world got drunk.

  Rose’s black turban was sliding down in the direction of his right ea
r, Rose’s lips sliding down same way as his turban, the gold loop in his queer ear all tangled up.

  Rose’s right eye drooped and his left eye got way open.

  Rose put his snifter into the same ring of wet on the white tablecloth.

  Even myself, I said, The substance of myself, I said, Is quite drunk.

  Rose put his bottom lip over his top lip, the inside sunset color of Rose’s lips, the black skin just above Rose’s false white beard.

  I say, William of Heaven, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack, We shouldn’t stop now, should we? What we need to do to is dress it up and fluff it up and get it high. What we need is a real cocktail! Rose said, What we need is Sho-ko-lat!

  Rose’s arms every which way in the air.

  I feel a party coming on! Rose said.

  Then let’s order another drink, I said.

  No no Yoko Ono! Rose said, bracelets clack-clack. Not here, Rose said. Not in L’Amérique profonde. These Yankees are dry sphincters. Let’s go to the Monster! Rose said. It’s just about cocktail hour.

  Rose tipped the snifter up and swallowed all the cognac, his Adam’s apple up and down, up and down.

  I have just the outfit, Rose said.

  Outfit? I said.

  But I’ve got some shopping to do first, Rose said.

  Rose lifted the purple velvet sleeve, and among his gold bracelets was a watch that looked like an hourglass.

  What do you say you meet me at the Monster in two hours? Rose said. Seven-thirty?

  THERE ISN’T MUCH stopping Rose when he gets an idea in his head. So after we kissed like Europeans do in front of the Waldorf Hysteria, Rose took a cab uptown. I took the subway home, turned the shower on, dialed WBLS on the boom box. Luther Vandross was singing My Sensitivity.

  I sat down in the shower, let the hot water hit my face. Who knows how long I sat in the shower. New Yorkers don’t recycle garbage or worry about water tables, so I just sat and sat, the hot on my drunk forehead, my knees, down my frog-belly-white Idaho legs, through my toes.

  Then my doorbell rang. I grabbed for my blue towel and wrapped it around me.

  Like on True Shot’s mirrors, Rose through the peephole was a black tumble of turban, big smile, the liar’s space. I unlocked my three locks, opened the door.

  Rose was so big, I didn’t know how he fit in the hallway.

  The droop of his right eye, the wide open of his left.

  I found exactly what I wanted, Rose said.

  He lifted up a big bag with BARNEY’S on it.

  The color is perfect, Rose said.

  Purple? I said.

  Never you mind, Rose said.

  Then: Are we still on for seven-thirty? Rose said. You’re not giving up on me, are you?

  Rose was looking at my big nipples. I folded my arms in front of me. Then the towel started to slip, so I grabbed the towel.

  No, seven-thirty’s cool, I said. I’ll come up.

  Rose’s index at me back and forth in the air.

  No no Yoko Ono, Rose said. I’ll meet you there. Come ten minutes late. That way, Rose said, You can see me at the dimly lit smoky bar.

  Across a crowded room was what Rose was singing as he made his exit up the stairs.

  THE MONSTER HAS windows along the sidewalk and you can look right in at the bar. I stopped on the sidewalk and looked where there wasn’t steam. Men inside, so many you couldn’t see anything but men. The light was not bright but warm and rose-colored, a haze through the steam.

  Above the door, the sign was a black reptile.

  A short stocky black man with a gray beard and stocking cap gave me the once-over, asked for my ID. All I had was my Idaho driver’s license. He looked down at my ID, then looked up at me again.

  Jesus Christ! the guy said. It’s an Idahomo! Welcome to the Monster! he said and pushed open the door.

  Warm rose-colored light, and loud the way that makes you want to turn back. Hundreds of men drinking, talking. The bar was a rectangle with the bartenders inside; you sat around on the outside. Three or four men deep around the bar. The light was from deco sconces on the walls and a crystal chandelabra hanging above the bartenders.

  On the other side of hundreds of men talking was a piano and some men singing. Lullabye of Broadway. Those Little Town Blues.

  Across the crowded room, at the far end of the bar, Rose, a head taller than anybody. He was wearing a navy blue gabardine suit with Joan Crawford shoulder pads, a starched white shirt, and a wide red, white, and blue tie, the stars and stripes of the American flag. The blue was so blue and the white so white, red so red against Rose’s skin.

  Rose was sipping a martini up with olive, smoking his Gauloise. From across the crowded room, Rose’s head was shiny with rosemary oil. He wore a mustache and a Fu Manchu beard.

  Rose was surrounded by men, but right around him there was a space. Eight to ten inches of never-touch-me. The space in between that kept Rose himself.

  When I got to Rose, I stood behind him. He was at least a yardstick from shoulder to shoulder. I didn’t touch him.

  First rule.

  Rose? I said.

  Rose turned around, well-heeled gentleman. His nostrils flared out, a life all their own. Rose’s extra-lovely navy blue arm raised the martini to the sunset color of the inside of his lips.

  Rose, a black snake winding along the rim of a sand dune, beautiful according to Africa.

  On his left arm, between the navy blue sleeve and Rose’s palm, over the starched white cuff and rhinestone cuff link, Rose’s bracelets, clack-clack.

  The gap between Rose’s two front teeth.

  Rose, I said, You are so handsome. So Gary Cooper, I said.

  It’s all drag, Rose said.

  He stood up from the high stool, did a turn for me, sucked in his gut a little, puffed out his chest, buttoned the top button of the blue gabardine jacket.

  How do I look? Rose said.

  In the rose-colored light from the crystal chandelabra and the deco sconces, all at once Rose was a twenty-year-old kid, Roosevelt Washington King.

  Beautiful, I said. Fucking beautiful.

  Bartender! Another martini! Rose said.

  Then, to the guy sitting on the stool next to him, Rose said, You got to leave now.

  The guy said, What?

  Rose raised his chin up, up, looked down his eight-ball cheeks at the guy.

  William of Heaven is here, Rose said, And that’s his stool, and you got to leave now.

  The guy was skinny, bad silver comb-over hair, just a touch of makeup. He crossed his legs, uncrossed them, looked at me, then up at Rose, took his white wine spritzer, and got off the stool.

  Even ourselves, Rose said. We are just here, isn’t it?

  Rose and I, thigh to thigh, bunched up together at the bar. The top of the bar was shiny wood that slopes to the edge in a curve. The room grew louder and louder. The men around the piano in the back of the bar were singing that song from Phantom of the Opera. I looked over at the dark black of Rose’s neck. The starched white collar against the black.

  When Rose and I clinked glasses—Salud, Na zdarovya, L’chayim, Here’s Looking at You, Usife moyo—when I put the thin rim of martini glass to my lips, I remember my breath in, my breath out. I remember I was completely present and the moment I was in forever expanded.

  Who knows how long I sipped at the martini.

  I am still sipping the martini.

  THAT’S HOW THURSDAY night started. With that moment, with Rose and me doing what we both like best. Sitting on stoops or bar stools, watching, drinking. A room full of men gathered under a crystal chandelabra, cigarettes, cocktails, arms around each other at the piano, singing. Human beings in a bar.

  All of us all one thing. Getting shit-faced.

  Rose ordered another round of martinis. I rolled a cigarette for Rose, one for me. Lit Rose’s, mine.

  There’s two more questions, I said.

  When Rose smiled, Rose had a fake gold front tooth just left of
the liar’s space.

  What did your father do?

  And the second? Rose said.

  Do you really know Elizabeth Taylor?

  Rose crossed one leg over the other. His socks were also red, white, and blue. He sipped his martini and put his glass down right into the ring of wet on the wood bar.

  Rose’s extra-lovely hand, his thumb and third finger up and down up and down on his Fu Manchu.

  Are you mildly curious, Rose said, Or would you really like to know?

  I’d like to know, I said.

  My father was president of the United Negro College Fund, Rose said. He lifted the martini to his sunset lips. And Elizabeth Taylor adores my black ass.

  Rose, I said, You’re so full of shit.

  Human beings in a bar, Rose and I laughing.

  The bartender brought the martinis. He was young and pumped up, wearing a camouflage T-shirt. Both the bartenders were all style and performance, throwing the mixer in the air behind their backs, flipping bottles, pouring drinks into glasses from above their heads.

  Do you think the bartenders are sexy? I asked.

  Rose lifted the martini glass to the inside color of his lips, sipped, put the glass back down.

  There’s got to be something wrong, Rose said, Something a little off, before I find a man sexy. Some kind of scar or crack or wandering eye—something broken about him that’s been repaired, or he’s trying to cover up.

  These two bartenders—Rose waved his hand, bracelets clack-clack—well-thought-out bodies. Now I ask you, Rose said, Who’d want to fuck a well-thought-out body?

  Not one surprising bone! Rose said.

  The whole time they’d be counting the repetitions, Rose said.

  TO OUR RIGHT, men were crowding up.

  They were standing in line to get in the bathroom. The bathroom was a single toilet where you could lock the door.

  Facilitates things, Rose said.

  Fascilitates what? I said.

  Cocaine, Rose said, You can lock the door and do your cocaine. White death, Rose said.

  You don’t do cocaine? I said.

  That is correct, Rose said.

  No shit? I said.

  Don’t get me started, Rose said, and as soon as Rose said Don’t get me started, Rose started.

  A Republican plot, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack. Opiate the yuppie masses leading lives of quiet desperation, Rose said. It’s the White Paranoid Patriarch drug.