I had to feel sorry for Mike. I’ve been through this stuff with the police myself, and it’s no picnic. The whole thing really got me thinking. I mean, I can understand laws against dressing like the opposite sex if it’s to the point where you are actually deceiving people. But in Mike’s case, with just a little looking, you can tell she’s a woman. And I’m no expert in this area, of course, but I’m guessing that most women who occasionally wear slacks have little problems due the fact that it’s so obvious they’re women. There’s not even a hint of deception, even when they wear slacks while camping or sailing or ice skating.
“Well, I heard that a girl cannot be arrested for masquerading as long as she is wearing at least three articles of women’s clothing,” said Agnes.
Mike sneered like she didn’t believe it.
But Barbara nodded. “Yeah, yes, I have heard this one, too.”
“Yes, I have as well,” said Lucille, the meek woman who had been talking to Agnes before we had all gathered around them.
“Well, maybe there was some truth to this in the old days. Or maybe it is just a legend of the streets, I really do not know. But if being arrested for masquerading is no longer legal, it would seem to be a moot point these days,” said Barbara.
“Actually, I’ve heard it from many people. And I myself have never had any trouble,” continued Agnes.
“But you don’t dress like a man,” said Mike.
“Yes, that’s true, dear,” said Agnes. Then she sipped her wine very elegantly. “Bad example.”
Before long, the party had segregated itself almost completely, with boys on one side of the duplex and girls on the other. It made me think of those old junior high school dances. Only here, the boys and girls couldn’t even see each other and there certainly wasn’t that boy-girl tension that used to hang in the air. Even I was aware of it back then, and I was gay.
So much for being a fly on the wall. I was now on my second beer and I couldn’t walk too far without being sucked into different conversations. The truth was, though, I was actually beginning to enjoy myself. I was really feeling kind of free, unlike the way I’ve felt in bars so often. And it felt good to be able to supply the duplex for people. One guy came up to me and asked me if I was Jerry Ripley.
“Yes.”
He introduced himself and his friend to me. Gus and Dave were their names, and they both dressed a little better than most of us. Gus seemed very grateful for our party, explaining that a few years ago, he thought that maybe he was being watched by the police. Because of that, he and Dave swore off bars and began doing a lot of lavender dating with a couple of girls, who at that moment were right next door on the girls’ side of the party.
“This place is great,” Gus said. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been able to attend a party with just men. You have to really watch it these days, I mean, if you care about your job and all.”
“Man, it’s like your whole life is one big lavender date,” Dave said, looking at me, smiling.
The two of them nodded in agreement. They seemed really excited to be here and thanked me for inviting them. I told them they were welcome. Of course, I really had no idea who had invited them, as it turned out they had no idea who Barbara, Dot, or Cliff were. I wondered if they might be cops. A couple of Hollywood Rejects. A chill went up my back, and I got very nervous. Whatever buzz I was getting from my beer seemed to die right away. This was not good, people showing up whom we didn’t know. Word had spread on its own, and obviously that meant we were no longer controlling things. I tried to stay calm.
“You guys are dressed pretty nicely,” I said. I regretted it as soon as I said it. Don’t compliment the way they look, for God’s sake! I thought.
They told me how they felt it was important to dress up tonight; to keep things “normal and appropriate.” They both wore jackets and ties and unlike some of the other guests, they kept them on the whole time. Their “dates” next door also kept things “straight as an arrow,” they said. “You know, just in case…”
It was around this time that I realized I was scanning the room wondering where Cliff was. I hoped I didn’t look disinterested or rude, so I turned my attention back toward my guests.
We continued talking—Dave, Gus and me—and I found that I really liked them. They both worked for large corporations and again mentioned how much they enjoyed their jobs and how they worried about ever putting themselves in a position where they might lose them. They sounded sincere and seemed to have a realistic fear over the idea of protecting the livelihoods they had worked so hard to acquire. Of course, that didn’t stop me from occasionally wondering if they might pull out their badges at any moment and arrest me. They certainly didn’t sound like the police, but then again, police officers never talk like the police before you say something you shouldn’t.
It was around that time that I noticed Gus’ face drop as he nudged Dave, who was in mid-sentence.
Dave shook his head and tightened his lips. Gus did likewise, the same look on his face.
I wondered what was going on. They seemed to be looking over my shoulder, so I finally looked behind me.
I guess they were about ten feet away—the group Dave and Gus were looking at, I mean. And the first thing I noticed was the way they were dressed. One was in an all-white suit with a red tie. The one standing next to him wore a pair of men’s slacks that were baggy. The shirt looked more like a blouse. Well, I guess it looked, oddly, as if it could be worn by either a man or a woman, but given the circumstances…Thinking back I also remember a sort of feminine hat, curly blonde hair—it may have been a wig—lipstick and nail polish. And it was all on the face of yet another man who looked like he could have been a truck driver.
Finally, the last one wasn’t fooling around. He didn’t go halfway like the second one. He was just dressed like a woman. Period. Like any woman you’d see walking down the street. As a matter a fact, until I heard him talk, I thought it was a woman—talking to two men.
The second thing I noticed was a high falsetto laugh coming from the one in the red tie, next to the one in the wig. He spoke very flamboyantly, almost shouting and said, “When I was married, I only got a blow job every twenty-eight days, if you know what I mean. And I had to beg for it. Now I get one every night!”
I turned back to Dave and Gus. They had looks of pure disgust on their faces. I didn’t know what to think.
“Well, how do you like that?” said Gus.
“Man, I wish they’d hit the road. They make us all look bad. How are people going to take us seriously with guys like that floating around?” said Dave.
“See, the thing is, guys like that don’t just bring the wrath down on themselves. They bring it down on all of us,” said Gus, who was now looking right at me. “It’s like our friend Joe, the one who told us about your party. He’s married. He’s got kids. His wife can’t find out about all this. He’ll never see his kids again. This is serious stuff.”
“That’s the only reason we came to your party. We figured everyone was showing up boy-girl, having some fun and then leaving boy-girl,” said Dave.
“God! The first time in three years we get to come to an all-male party, and now this!” said Gus.
Next, the two of them started arguing, quietly, like I wasn’t there. Gus wanted to throw “the fruit cocktail section” out on their “earrings.”
Dave fired back. “You want to throw a trio of screaming, hysterical fairies out on the street in the suburbs? Are you crazy? Why don’t you just book us a nice seat, in advance, over at the county jail? And then you can call your boss—”
“All right, let’s go!” said Gus. “Let’s get the girls and get the hell out of here!” He was fuming.
They both shook my hand quickly and thanked me, huffing and puffing the whole time. Dave wished me good luck. “Yeah. Good luck,” said Gus. He gave me a two-handed shake
and stared into my eyes for what was probably two seconds but felt like a minute. In a flash, they were gone.
All of this gave me the creeps. It happened so fast, and it felt like some kind of kiss of death that you’d see in some Peter Lorre movie or something. I wasn’t sure what to make of it all. I glanced over at the flamboyant group that had gotten Dave and Gus so riled up. Then I looked away, not wanting to stare. I thought of my boss, Dennis Saxby, the one who killed himself.
Maybe Dave and Gus had something. I mean, what was the point of the duplex if it was going to be like being back in the bars? I took a drink, just standing there alone, staring at the wall, feeling foolish. A moment later, the silence in my head was broken.
“So whose ass do I need to tickle around here to get a drink?”
The queens erupted in laughter, and for some reason I felt very angry. I walked toward them, slowly, having no idea what I was going to say when I got there. And I only had a few feet to figure it out. As I got closer, I realized that they had no idea I was approaching, which for some reason made me angrier.
But then I heard something that took me off my course. It was laughter and it was coming from down the hallway.
And that’s when I heard that familiar voice. “Smith, huh? Any relation?”
More laughter. “Any relation?” He laughed again. “To who?”
“John. John Smith! You know him? What about Tom or George or Alice? All Smith. Just pick one.” It was Cliff and another man. They were coming out of our bedroom. Both had been drinking.
“Jerry! This is a helluva bash. Come here!” He came over and hugged me. “Jerry, this is Smith. Somebody Smith.”
“Hi, I’m Richard.”
“Smith,” I said. The perfect name for checking into a motel, I thought to myself. He looked like he was solidly in his mid-thirties. He had a strong chin and perfect teeth, and I imagined that he came from money.
“I was just showing Smith here around the place,” Cliff said.
I must have looked angry because Cliff seemed to sober up right away. And then he looked me right in the eyes.
“Jerry. I’m serious. That’s all we were doing.”
I sighed. I felt like crying all of a sudden.
“Smith, what’s the name of that book on my dresser?” Cliff asked.
“I, the Jury.”
“Anything else on there?”
“An issue of some sports magazine and a comic book or two.”
“And on the wall. Not talking about the plaster. The painting.”
“It’s a painting of two battleships, having it out.”
“And what color are the sheets on the bed?”
“All right, all right,” I said. It was getting embarrassing.
“I have no idea,” said Smith.
Cliff smiled. “Your witness, counselor.” And he put his arm around my neck and finished what was left in his glass. It was not a little bit either. “Come on, Jerry old boy. Let me buy you a drink.” I put my arm on Cliff’s back, and we turned and began walking away. Cliff waved over his shoulder. “Nice to meet you, uh, um…”
“Smith,” I said. It felt good holding Cliff close.
“Now, why can’t I ever remember that? Smith. What an odd name. I wonder how you spell that?”
“God only knows.”
“Yes, him. He probably does know. Listen Jerry, I have a confession to make.”
“Yeah?”
“I have a little battle going tonight.”
“Oh?”
“Me against this fella, Jim Beam. And between you and me”—and then he shifted into a whisper—“I think he’s winning.”
“He’s a tough one, alright.”
“Yeah, he’s tough. But I’m not giving up. A few more slugs and I think I’ll have him.”
“Why don’t you see if you can beat a cup of coffee?”
When we got to the kitchen, we had to make our way through a sea of people. Cliff insisted on one more tiny shot of Jim Beam. I got it for him, cutting it with as much water as I could get away with. Cliff noticed the difference but was actually happy. “He’s weakening! I’m beating him. I can feel it. He’s not as strong as he was earlier, that’s for sure.”
By this point, Cliff was leaning against the counter and making a conscious effort not to slur his words. He stared at the last little bit in his glass. “You know, Jerry, I guess my father lived a manlier life than I ever will.” He sighed. “But I aim to have more fun.” Then he spilled his glass, and I helped him over to a chair.
We smiled at each other as I stroked his hair. Even though he was bombed, it was the most fun I had had all night. I loved just being with him.
I gave him some coffee and a cigarette. And I lit one up myself.
“Did I ever tell you that I’m one three hundred-sixty fourth Irish?” he asked.
If I had had as much to drink as he had, I would have been asleep by then. But he could just keep on going. I didn’t know what was keeping him up.
“No, I don’t think you ever did.”
“Sure. Everyone’s Irish on Saint Patrick’s Day. At least that’s what they always tell me. Anyway, one day out of the year. One three hundred-sixty f-f-fourth.”
I laughed. “One three hundred-sixty fifth Irish.”
“How do you figure?”
“Three hundred sixty-five days in a year. One three hundred sixty-fifth.”
He stared at me for a moment, and his eyes looked skeptical. I smiled and nodded. “Yeah.”
“Oh! Leap year! Okay, okay, I get you. Leap year, yeah.”
I laughed, and then he laughed. And then he took a drag on his cigarette.
“Huh. So, I guess I’m less Irish than I thought. One hun—”
“Jerry! Jerry!” It was Dot. She was at the kitchen entrance, but there were too many people to make it through.
“Hey!” I waved.
She shouted, and made cute pleading faces, that they needed more ice next door.
I told Cliff I’d be right back. Then I grabbed some ice from the freezer and made my way through the crowd. I had been so focused on Cliff, I had forgotten how many people had crashed our party, and it was difficult to get to the passageway.
I felt a little more relaxed at this point, but still the sheer number of people here made me edgy. It’s a lot harder for a hundred people to keep a secret than it is for thirty. Especially if they’d been drinking.
But the reality at this point in the evening was that all I could really do was enjoy it as much as possible. I found myself continuing to be that proverbial fly on the wall I had been earlier in the evening as I made my way toward the girls’ side. Only this time, the circumstances were a little different. Every time the crowd stopped moving, I’d find myself—ice bucket in hand and cigarette dangling from my mouth—standing right near a few people having a conversation. I found most of these exchanges pretty interesting.
At one point, for example, I was held up next to a young man, maybe nineteen, talking to a guy who must have been in his mid-twenties. This poor kid was struggling over whether or not he was gay. I kept my mouth shut, but my feeling is, if you have to ask, well…
This mid-twenties guy had his own personal method. He put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and said, “Kid,”—like he’d been doing this for years—“Kid,” he says, “Who do you find more attractive, Lauren Bacall or Lorne Greene?” Well, the kid had never heard of Lorne Greene, so that didn’t work.
“Actually in this case, the answer really is neither, so lousy example anyway. All right. Try this one. Gene Tierney or Gene Kelly?”
The kid smiled, but I didn’t get a chance to hear his answer because the crowd broke, and I was pushed forward. Bad timing, I guess. I wondered if the next question the mid-twenties man would ask would be, “That girl over there, or me?”
/> And I got a vocabulary lesson during another conversation, once I got on to the girls’ side. I had no idea, but apparently there are these straight guys called “fish queens” who love to perform oral sex so much that they hang around lesbian bars hoping to “help out,” so to speak. That was definitely one of those times I had to remind myself that I’m a long way from Kansas.
The women looked great. Nothing but cocktail dresses and pearls. It made me think of Mike who was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she met someone and left, I wondered.
There was a lot dancing going on. More than on the men’s side. Everyone seemed to be having a great time, which was nice to see. And I got nothing but smiles as I made my way through the crowd. One Negro woman, who was rather large, grabbed me without warning and insisted I dance with her. It was all I could do to put the bucket of ice down before she pulled me away. She insisted on leading, and it was nothing but fun. We practically laughed the whole time, and she was a great dancer. When I was good and out of breath a few dances later, she laughingly let me go but not before she planted a big kiss on my lips. That part surprised the heck out of me, and at that moment I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. But I was determined not to show my potential reservations. We grinned at each other as we each backed up, melodramatically releasing our hands from each other until the last bits of our fingertips broke free.
After that wonderful and unexpected detour, I picked up the ice bucket and saw Dot across the room. I imitated her pleading looks that she had given me a while back as I held up the ice bucket and pointed at it. Even from across the room, it was a joy to see her laugh, and it occurred to me what a great time I was having.
As I maneuvered my way through the crowd, I became aware of an angry exchange that was happening. I continued moving forward and realized that Barbara was involved in something.
The Duplex Page 11