In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  Fiona knelt down. At first I thought it was supplication, but she was kneeling so she could pet Mary and Mona. Jack Flash started growling.

  Then: I understand, Rose said, That you need a headliner to open up your new performance space. I’ve heard many good things about you, Rose said. I understand you have a fine spirit, so I agree to do it. You can talk to my agent, William of Heaven here, for the details.

  Fiona stood up, and it was like when you stand up too fast and you see colors.

  Oh, my fucking God Jesus Christ shit! Fiona said.

  I assume that means yes, Rose said.

  Rose’s bracelets clack-clack.

  Yes, Fiona said.

  Shall we set a date then? Rose said.

  Fiona looked around for something, for anything.

  June, Fiona said. The first Saturday in June.

  Rain again. Harder this time, then hail.

  Rose and Fiona and Mary and Mona and Jack Flash and me all trying to stand under Rose’s huge red umbrella, big white pieces of hail banging down on cars and on the sidewalk and on the umbrella.

  The first Saturday in June it is, Rose said.

  Cool, Fiona said. Totally cool.

  THE LAST WEEK in May, posters all over the Lower East Side, on every telephone pole and empty wall space you could imagine, all different colors—purple, pink, green, blue, yellow—there it was, the Xerox photograph of Rose in his Antigone drag.

  STRANDED BEINGS SEARCHING FOR GOD OPENING NIGHT, ARGWINGS KHODEK SATURDAY, JUNE 7, 8 P.M.

  On Second Avenue and Fifth Street I tore a poster off a telephone pole and thumbtacked Rose’s picture to the wall above my bed next to Daniel’s beer-can dick.

  SATURDAY AT LAST. My hair was still wet from the shower, and I wore my black cutoffs and my black T-shirt and my white socks with a red stripe at the top and my combat boots and a string of cheap imitation pearls Rose gave me.

  I taped RESERVED on four chairs : One chair for the Village Voice, one chair for The New Yorker, one chair for Dance Theater Workshop, and one chair for The Times.

  A snowball in hell, Fiona said, The New Yorker or The Times showing up, Fiona said. Still, it looks cool.

  At seven-thirty, when I unlocked the door to Stranded Beings Searching for God and looked outside, already there were a dozen people standing on the steps and on the sidewalk. I took everybody’s five dollars at the door.

  At seven-fifty, the place was almost full. There was a break in the line of people coming in, so I ran over to Fiona, who was busy behind the counter selling corn dogs and beer.

  Is he here yet? Fiona asked.

  Who, Harry? I said.

  No, Fiona said. Argwings Khodek.

  Not yet, I said. He’s changing upstairs, I said. Don’t worry, he’ll show.

  Where’s Harry? I said.

  My parents here? Fiona asked. I haven’t dared look.

  Don’t know, I said. What do they look like?

  Fiona gave some guy a napkin with his corn dog.

  High-maintenance chick, Fiona said. Silver hair, tall, covered in silk.

  With three guys? I said. Who look like lawyers? I said.

  Oh, fuck! Fiona said. My father and my brothers.

  Aren’t your brothers sick? I said.

  Fiona was looking across the audience. Then all at once Fiona smiled so all her teeth were showing and waved. The high-maintenance silver-haired chick covered in silk waved, and the three lawyers.

  Where’s Harry? I said.

  Throwing up, Fiona said. He’s real dizzy. Just opening-night jitters. He just called, Fiona said. Said he’ll be here. It’s cool.

  Who’s going to run the lights and sound if he doesn’t show? I said.

  He’ll show, Fiona said. Harry will show.

  ROSE CAME THROUGH the door just before eight o’clock with his purple velvet cape draped over him with the hood up. All I could tell was he had a lot of makeup on. Dark glasses. He was carrying the large BARNEY’S bag and went straight to the dressing room.

  Eight o’clock, I walked out onto East Fifth Street.

  No Harry.

  No Charlie 2Moons.

  I closed the front door. Fifty-four people. Forty seated, fourteen standing. Only two empty seats, The New Yorker and The Times.

  Harry was nowhere, so I went to the light board and turned up the house lights. On the stage were two Greek pillars with a piece of emerald-green velvet cloth draped between them.

  FIONA WAS ALL in black. Zipper-up-the-front top, black tights. On her arms about a million bracelets. Red lips a life all their own. She walked onto the stage and grabbed the mike like she was finally home.

  Welcome to Stranded Beings Searching for God, Fiona said. And now, ladies and gentlemen, Argwings Khodek as Antigone!

  Whistles, Yee-hahs, people going wild clapping. People were yelling Vive la Rose! so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think. I was clapping too, so hard was I clapping for Rose.

  ROSE WALKED OUT into the unrelenting light of the spotlight. The black wig was fake shiny with marcel waves. He was wearing a white bedsheet, draped like Greeks over just one shoulder. Purple platform high heels you could see when he walked. Rose close to seven feet tall. Huge eyelashes, maybe three inches long, up and down, up and down. Painted-on eyebrows in the middle of his forehead. Rose’s red lips twice their size. Glitter everywhere.

  A red accordion hung from the crook of his right arm. Rose undid the clasp of the accordion, and the bellows out made a sound, and the audience laughed a little bit, and I laughed too.

  On Rose’s fingernails, purple Lee Press-On nails.

  Rose didn’t smile. Didn’t look at the audience. His shoulders bent back a little when the accordion settled.

  My heart beat. My breath.

  There he stood, the fake shiny wig above the red accordion, the three-inch false eyelashes, the red lips, his huge black arms poking out of his sheet, the purple Lee Press-On nails pressed onto his fingernails, his fingers on the black and white keys.

  Rose took a breath in and the accordion stretched out. He flexed his arms and went to press down on the keys, but he didn’t press.

  Sweat on Rose’s neck, his arms, beading up on the eyebrows painted on his forehead.

  Rose took another breath in and the accordion stretched out. He flexed his arms and went to press down on the keys, but he didn’t press.

  Who knows how long Rose stood that way.

  Quiet in the theater. Quiet only New York can get.

  Another breath in. Then Rose looked down like he suddenly realized there was a red accordion hanging off him.

  His black hands, his fingers, began moving up and down, Lee Press-On fingernails click-click against the keys. The song came out some polka oom-pah oom-pah.

  Just as quick as he started, Rose stopped playing.

  He bent forward as if the accordion were so much heavier than an accordion. His arms went down, purple Lee Press-On nails pointed to the floor.

  Rose stood and stood, his left eye open wide, his right eye almost closed. Beads of sweat tiny illuminations on his painted face.

  People coughed, someone giggled. I laughed a little loud so Rose would know.

  Then: This is all wrong, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack. All wrong. I’m not doing Antigone tonight. It’s too late for Antigone.

  Could somebody, Rose yelled, Please get this Greek shit off the stage?

  Low murmurs from the audience. I quick jumped up to get the Greek shit off the stage. But then Fiona walked out, stage left.

  Shit-spray.

  Fiona was shit-spray. Her lip a life all its own. She walked behind Rose, her shoulders low. She pulled the emerald green velvet drape off from between the pillars, picked up one Greek pillar and put it under her arm, grabbed the other Greek pillar.

  Rose cupped his hands over his huge painted red lips.

  William of Heaven? Rose yelled. Rose looked right out at me. Turn the house lights up! he said.

  The house lights was a switc
h on the top left of the light panel. One flick and the audience all at once wasn’t sitting in a theater anymore, just a bright room with chairs in it.

  Could you come up here, Rose said, And help get this shit off me?

  Low murmurs from the crowd. I tripped over a chair. The step up to the stage was a big one. All over on me, the house lights, unrelenting.

  Help me with this goddamn thing, Rose said.

  Rose looked right at me and was talking to me like we were just two ordinary guys, not on a stage in front of fifty-four people.

  Rose’s body was dripping sweat. The white sheet was sticking to his legs. One arm, then the other, Rose pulled himself out of the accordion and then the accordion was in my arms, an accordion breath scream, the bellows pinching a long slice of my chest and belly.

  Just put it over there, Rose said.

  Over there was stage left, so my feet walked across the stage four steps. I bent over and set the accordion down and it made a sound. My breath was in and out. Then, just as I turned to take my four steps back to Rose, the audience gasped.

  Rose was naked. The sheet was off and there he was, Rose standing naked in a bright room with chairs in it and people sitting in the chairs.

  Rose’s arms, his chest, his Buddha belly, his cock and balls, his thighs and calves and knees, bare naked on the stage.

  Under him, his feet stuck into purple platform high heels.

  On his fingernails, Lee Press-On nails.

  On top of him, the painted face and the wig.

  Get my makeup kit out of the Green Room, Rose said. It’s the big bag that says BARNEY’S on it.

  Even backstage, I was still onstage, like every eye in the fucking world was on me. I turned on the light in the bathroom. Fiona was on the toilet, head in her hands, shit-spray. I grabbed Rose’s BARNEY’S bag, shut the light back off.

  The line, the black hard-edged line between offstage and onstage. From the dark back into the bright, over that hard edge, my mother’s nerves, it was four steps, four giant steps, and I was back next to Rose.

  The bright on Rose’s chest and belly, on his balls and cock, the hairs sticking up off him into the house lights unrelenting, Rose standing in his purple platform high heels, paint on his face, fingernails—Rose was so much more than naked.

  I stepped between him and the audience, looked up.

  Up that close, in all that bright, all I could see was paint.

  Rose, I whispered. Rose, are you all right?

  Of course I’m all right, Rose said.

  His big eyelashes up and down, up and down.

  And you? Rose said. How are you?

  Behind me, the audience. Fifty-four pairs of eyes on my back.

  Cool, I said.

  Fabulous, Rose said.

  Rose took the BARNEY’S bag. Even his Sahara palms were sweating. A muscle in his naked bicep jumped.

  Rose? I said.

  That will do for now, Rose said, I’ll call you if I need anything else.

  It was so hard to tell if this was a performance Rose was doing or if it was just Rose standing on the stage talking to me.

  Except that Rose was sweating. Except that his hands were shaking.

  Then, just like that, Rose said, just ordinary: Where’s Harry?

  Didn’t show, I said.

  Rose’s lips a Bronx cheer.

  I love the theah-tah, Rose said, bracelets clack-clack.

  Rose’s smile, the fake gold tooth. Rose’s lips were chapped. Blood in the corner of his mouth.

  Well then, Rose said, You’ll have to do the light board. Line up the yellow dot on the rheostat with the yellow mark, the amber dot with the amber mark and then turn the fucking house lights off.

  Don’t worry, Rose said, You’ll do fine. When I tell you, Rose said, Turn the spot on. Make sure I’m in it.

  Then: Susan Strong! Rose yelled.

  The toilet flushed.

  I had to laugh, then other people laughed.

  Fiona walked onstage, a bright smile an erector set for her broken lip.

  Rose touched Fiona on the shoulder. The muscles in her back jumped. Rose leaned his head down, whispered something in Fiona’s ear.

  THE YELLOW, AMBER, and the red dots were aligned with their marks. I flipped the switch and the fucking house lights went off.

  The light on the stage a soft gold color.

  The bedsheet a pile of folded gold.

  Behind Rose, stage left, stood Ronald Reagan. Stage right stood Nancy.

  Rose sat cross-legged on the floor, center stage.

  Fiona put a tape in the tape player and just like that music started, just a trombone and a bass, playing music I only knew as Deep South. Slow sorrowful jazz about death.

  OK, Will! Rose yelled. Give me the spot.

  The spotlight was the second rheostat from the left. I pushed the rheostat up. Onstage, Rose was sitting right in the middle of the light.

  C’est parfait! Rose said.

  Rose pulled off his wig, threw it out into the audience. The woman from the Village Voice caught it. Then his purple platform high heels, one each flying into the air.

  Hands spread out in front of his face, palm in, Rose finger-to-thumb flipped Lee Press-On nails, spit ten purple chips out into the light.

  Next, the eyelashes. Rose pulled them off from the nose out, let them drop. Spiders falling through the spotlight.

  Out of the BARNEY’S bag, Rose pulled out a jar of something, unscrewed the lid, wrapped the sheet around his other hand, dipped the sheet into the jar. Rubbed the sheet around and around on his face.

  The eyebrows, the eyeliner, the eye shadow, the lipstick, the lip liner, the mascara onto the sheet, glitter red and blue and purple.

  The bass and the trombone, Nobody knows my sorrow.

  Fiona held her stomach with one hand and in the other she carried a blue bucket onstage. The way she leaned the bucket was heavy. She set the bucket down next to the BARNEY’S bag. When Rose pulled the bucket upstage, little splashes of water.

  Rose knelt up. His knee cracked. Then Rose sat back down on his feet, Japanese style. Pulled his cock and balls up, closed his thighs, let his cock down nice inside his ball sack.

  His face down next to the water, Rose stared into what he could see. What I saw was the scar on Rose’s head from when he fell on the stoop, the rolling muscles across his back.

  Then Rose stood, Atlas, the whole body of him, his arms raised up, armpit hair, the blue bucket in his hands. Rose looked up at the blue bucket as he poured the water down his body. Water caught the light, splashed down onto him. Splashes of water dark spots on the floor making one big dark spot. Some people in the front row pushed their chairs back.

  A man standing alone in his room, Rose took the sheet and wiped his face, under his arms, his crotch, his ass.

  Then Rose was back down again, sitting cross-legged like Buddha, his arms round down onto his legs. His hands, his Sahara palms, thumb and index a circle on each knee. Rose’s inhale brought his chest up and his belly in. With the exhale, Rose smiled his gold gap-tooth smile.

  The sheet. Rose took two corners of the sheet and flipped the sheet up. In the soft gold light, the sheet above was a sunset cloud. The cloud settled down over his head, his shoulders, his knees.

  In the spotlight, the sheet was white unrelenting.

  Except for the eyeholes. Rose’s two black eyes, behind, within the eyeholes he’d cut into the sheet.

  Nobody knows.

  Not a breath in the room.

  Who knows how long Rose sat there.

  Rose is still sitting there.

  THE SHEET. ROSE stood up, pulled the sheet off his head, wrapped the sheet around his waist, pulled a corner up through his crotch, cinched the corner into a loincloth.

  From stage left, the wheel rolled in. It was a mounted whitewall tire with a stain of red on the white wall, BUICK on the chrome hub-cap rolling through the four directions. Rose put out his hand and stopped the wheel, BUICK a perfect hor
izontal. Rose’s palm open just next to the stain.

  Rose spit on his fingers, scratched at the red.

  From inside the BARNEY’S bag, Rose pulled out two cans of Old Dutch Cleanser.

  A can in each hand, Rose looked out at the audience, turned the cans upside down, shook.

  White cloud Old Dutch Cleanser, white powder, white floating up, white dust, white, white. Pretty soon white powder on the floor an inch deep.

  White powder on Ronald Reagan. On Nancy.

  White powder on Rose’s legs, arms, shoulders, hands. White powder on Rose’s face and head. Sweat through white.

  Rose’s eyes black holes in the white.

  Rose’s one knee buckled, then the other, he turned his back to the audience. White powder, sweat, on Rose’s back.

  Rose reached in the BARNEY’S bag, grabbed the scrub brush, laid the brush against the stain on the white-wall tire, leaned his muscle into it. Back and forth, back and forth, the scrub.

  Nobody knows the trouble, the sorrow.

  Nobody knows.

  INSIDE STRANDED BEINGS Searching for God was unrelenting house lights. And chaos.

  People were clapping, screaming, yelling. One man ran up to Rose, knelt down, and started kissing Rose’s feet.

  My mother’s nerves.

  In nothing flat, I was out the door and up the three steps. My heart beat, my breath. The pain in my forearms. The car parked at the curb was a Buick. The whitewalls, all four of them, no blood. I walked around the Buick again, checked for sure.

  My hand in my shirt pocket for my tobacco, I leaned my ass against the Buick, and wouldn’t you know it, I set off the car alarm.

  Another New Yorker gone to hell.

  The fucking alarm blared for ten minutes. All I could do is what I usually do, and that’s roll cigarettes, one right after another. All around on the sidewalks, people were standing close, in small groups, lighting cigarettes too, holding on to each other, cussing at the car alarm, talking talking.

  Was that blood on the tire?

  Do you think BUICK is significant?

  Why Old Dutch Cleanser? Why not Ajax?

  Above us, the June stars were tiny illuminations in the navy blue sky. The wind was cool and the cool felt good on my sweat.

  When I looked down from the stars to the top of 205 East Fifth Street, down and down, my eyes stopped at the first-story window.