Sure of You

by Armistead Maupin

“You see, Larry,” said the old lady.

  “I’m not sure I know how,” said Michael, seeing Thack’s amusement out of the corner of his eye.

  “Nothing to it.” The old lady took his hand and led him toward the floor.

  “I thought you wanted a Bud,” yelled her son.

  “Hang on to it,” she called back. “Was it Michael, did you say?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I’m Eula.”

  “Hi,” he said.

  Another song had already begun, so they waited for a space to open, then merged with the stream of waltzers. Custom seemed to demand holding your partner at arms’ length, which worked out fine, really, since Eula’s immense polyester-ruffled bosom had a few demands of its own.

  “You’re doin’ good,” she said.

  He chuckled. “It’s sorta the old, basic box step, isn’t it?”

  “That’s it.” She nodded. “Watch those girls ahead of us. They’ve got the knack of it.”

  The “girls” were a pair of fiftyish dykes in Forty-Niners jackets. They were good, all right, so Michael caught the rhythm of their movement and copied it.

  “There you go,” said Eula. “You got it.”

  “Well, you’re a good dancer,” Michael told her. And it was true, amazingly enough. She was remarkably light on her feet.

  “First time here?” she asked.

  “Uh-huh…well, no. I came here once in the early eighties, when it was called something else.”

  “What was it called then?”

  “I don’t remember, actually.” This was a lie, pure and simple. It had been called the Cave, and the walls had been painted black. Its specialties had been nude wrestling and slave auctions. Why he was hiding this from a woman who frequented the Eagle’s Bare Chest Contest, Michael did not know.

  “That’s my son you were talking to.”

  “I know,” he said. “He told me.”

  “He don’t like to go out much, but every now and then I make him.”

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “Ronnie—that’s his lover—he’s even worse. All them boys wanna do is rent movies and stay home.”

  “I know how they feel,” he said.

  “Oh, now,” she said. “You’re more fun than that.”

  The coquettish glint in her eye made him register finally on where he had seen her. “You were at the Castro Theatre, weren’t you? The Bow-Wow Beauty Pageant?”

  “That was me,” she said.

  “You had the Chihuahua, right? Dressed as Marie Antoinette?”

  “Carmen Miranda.”

  “Yeah. That was great.”

  “Larry made the little hat,” she said proudly. “He found all them little plastic bananas down at the Flower Mart, and he sewed ’em on a doll’s bonnet.”

  “Pretty clever.”

  “He’s good with a needle,” she said. “He’s been working on the AIDS Quilt.”

  Michael nodded.

  “He’s already made ten panels for his friends.”

  “That’s nice,” he replied.

  Five minutes later, at Eula’s insistence, Michael led Thack onto the dance floor.

  “Just once,” he said. “Then we’ll go home.”

  His lover gave him a grumpy look but went along with it, faking a waltz step admirably.

  “Look happy,” said Michael. “She’s watching.”

  “She’s not your mother.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “And you wouldn’t like it if she was.”

  “I dunno,” said Michael. In his mind’s eye, his mother was perpetually lunching at some mall in Orlando, telling anyone who insisted on knowing that her son lived “in California”—never in San Francisco, because San Francisco was such a dead giveaway.

  Thack said: “You’d hate it if your mother was a fag hag.”

  “Eula’s not a fag hag.”

  “That’s her name? Eula?”

  Michael smiled. “She’s just enjoying herself. Look, she’s dancing with a dyke now.”

  “O.K.,” said Thack. “A dyke hag.”

  “Be quiet. They’re coming this way.”

  Eula and her new partner waltzed alongside them. “Look-in’ good,” said Eula.

  “Thanks,” said Michael. “You too.”

  Eula’s partner was as short as Eula, only wiry and fortyish, with a delicate blue flower tattooed on her left bicep.

  “Jesus,” said Michael, when they had danced out of sight. “If Havasu City could see her now.”

  Relieved to be done with nightlife for a while, they drove home to Noe Hill well before eleven. Harry greeted them deliriously at the door, toe-dancing like a carnival dog at the realization that they hadn’t deserted him.

  “Has he been walked?” Michael asked.

  “Not by me.”

  “I’ll take him in a minute.”

  While Thack shed his clothes, Michael sealed off the garbage with a twist tie and dragged it from its niche beneath the sink. Harry recognized this as a sign of impending departure and yelped indignantly for his walk.

  “All right,” said Michael. “I hear you.”

  With the dog straining at the leash, he headed out into the darkness again and dropped the garbage into the curbside can. Thack had recently built a little weathered wood house for it, which looked homey and Martha’s Vineyardish in the moonlight. Michael stopped and admired it long enough to receive another reprimand from Harry.

  Dolores Park, Harry’s daytime stomping grounds, was bristling with crack dealers and fag-bashers at night, so Michael opted for the safer circle route along Cumberland, Sanchez, and Twentieth streets. He freed the dog at the base of the Cumberland steps and watched as he rocketed through the oversized cacti to the softer, more welcoming green patch at the top. Before he could catch up with him, Harry was yapping in a way that could only mean he’d confronted an unidentifiable human.

  “Harry!” he yelled, wary of being branded a noise polluter by the neighbors. “Just shut up. Behave yourself.”

  At the top of the steps, leaning against the rail, stood a chatty old geezer with a cane, who often “took his constitutional” there.

  “Little Harry,” said the man, as if that explained everything.

  “He’s a nuisance,” said Michael. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s just Harry. He’s just announcing you.”

  Harry circled the man, yapping obnoxiously.

  “Harry!” Michael clapped his hands authoritatively. “Get your fuzzy butt up the street!”

  When the dog was gone, he gave the old man an apologetic smile and continued walking. It was odd to think that Harry had some sort of relationship, however abrasive, with at least half the people on this street. They all knew him by name, while Michael was regarded merely as Harry’s owner. When he walked there by himself, the first thing they asked was: “Where’s Harry?”

  He liked that, and he liked the talk that usually followed: good basic village chat about the drought or the wind, the graffiti problem, the roses in bloom, the ugly new house that looked like a Ramada Inn. What he had with the people on this block was an unspoken agreement to exchange pleasantries without exchanging names. It wasn’t so different from the thing he’d enjoyed at the baths, the cordial anonymity that made strangers into equals.

  Tagging after Harry, he passed the white picket fences of Cumberland, then turned right on Sanchez and climbed another set of stairs to Twentieth Street. Harry knew the route by heart, so since there was no traffic at night, Michael gave him freedom to explore at will. If the dog got too far ahead, he would wait patiently in the green darkness until Michael trudged into view.

  When he reached Twentieth, a woman peeped from behind the curtains of her picture window. Recognizing him—or, more likely, Harry—she gave a chipper little wave. He waved back, realizing she was one of the Golden Girls, Thack’s name for a group of Lithuanian ladies who played gin al fresco at a house down on Sanchez.

  The moon hung fat
and lemony over Twin Peaks when he reached the stairs leading down to Noe. He gazed at it contentedly, Harry by his side, until the beeper jolted him out of his reverie. Turning it off, he clipped the leash on Harry again and headed down the stairs toward home.

  “You know what?” said Thack.

  They were both—no, all three—in bed now, Thack snuggled against Michael’s back, Harry burrowed under the new Macy’s comforter, next to Michael’s left calf.

  “What?” asked Michael.

  “I’ve got a great idea for a trellis.”

  “O.K.”

  “We build it,” said Thack, “in the shape of a triangle. And we grow pink flowers on it.”

  “Cute.”

  “I like it.”

  “You would,” said Michael.

  “Really,” said Thack. “We wanted a trellis, and it would…you know, deliver a political message.”

  “Do you think our neighbors really need the message?”

  “Sure. Some of them. Anyway, it’s celebratory.”

  “Can’t we just get a gay flag, like everybody else?”

  “We could,” said Thack. “Like everybody else.” It really wasn’t worth debating. “O.K., fine.”

  “What? A flag or a pink triangle?”

  “The pink triangle. Or both, for that matter. Go crazy.”

  Thack chuckled wickedly. “Be careful. My first idea was to write ’Queer and Present Danger’ above the door.”

  He meant this, probably, so Michael kept his mouth shut.

  “That would piss off ol’ Loomis, wouldn’t it?”

  “Who’s ol’ Loomis?” asked Michael.

  “You know. The guy who bitched about our Douche Larouche sign.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Where the fuck does he think he’s living, anyway? Homophobic old asshole!”

  Michael chuckled and reached behind him to pat Thack’s leg. “You’re such a Shiite.”

  “Well,” said his lover, “somebody’s gotta do it.”

  The Designer Bride

  SMOLDERING, MARY ANN LEFT THE SET AND HEADED straight to her dressing room, barely acknowledging the associate producer who stumbled along beside her, pleading his case. “Ilsa and I both talked to her last week,” he said, “and she was a regular Chatty Cathy.”

  “Swell,” she replied curtly. She had all but withered and died out there, and somebody was going to pay for it.

  “If we’d had any idea…”

  “That’s your job, isn’t it? To have some idea? The woman couldn’t utter a complete sentence, Al. Forget sentence. I was lucky if I got ‘yes’ or ‘no’ out of her.”

  “I know…”

  “This is not television, Al. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not television.”

  “Well, at least the audience could empathize.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that…it was understandable.”

  “Oh, really? How so?”

  “Well, I mean…the traumatic aspect.”

  “Al.” She sighed heavily, stopping at the door of her dressing room. “It doesn’t help much to know why, if she’s not communicating with us.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Surely somewhere out there there’s a woman who’s been sodomized by her father and is capable of composing a few coherent sentences on the subject.”

  “But she did when…”

  “I know. When you and Ilsa talked to her. Terrific. Too bad nobody else got to hear it.” She opened the door, then turned and looked at him. “I thought you said she was on Oprah.”

  “She was.”

  “Did she do that to Oprah?”

  He shook his head.

  “So what are you saying? It’s my fault?”

  “I’m not saying anything.”

  “Good answer,” she said, and closed the door on him.

  She was removing her makeup with broad, angry swipes when the phone rang. She hesitated a moment, then picked it up, thinking it might be Burke. She hoped to God he hadn’t seen the show. It was never too late for him to change his mind.

  “Yes?”

  “Mary Ann?” It was a woman’s voice, fluty and frivolous.

  “Who is this, please?”

  “It’s Prue, Mary Ann. Prue Giroux.”

  She winced. “Oh, yes.”

  “They wouldn’t put me through until I told them we were friends.” Prue giggled. “You have marvelous watchdogs!”

  Not marvelous enough, obviously. She’d done her damnedest for years to stay clear of this notorious climber. Prue’s appetite for celebrities was such that she regarded Mary Ann as nothing less than a vital link in the food chain. Mary Ann, after all, got first crack at the biggies.

  “What’s up, Prue?”

  “Well, I know it’s late notice, but I’m having a little impromptu session of the Forum this afternoon, and I’d love for you to come.”

  The Forum was Prue’s pretentious name for the celebrity brunches she’d been throwing at her house for the past decade or so. They were almost always tedious affairs, populated by dubious local “personalities” and people who hoped to meet them.

  “Oh, gosh,” she said, unintentionally mimicking Prue’s gushy, little-girlish delivery. “That’s so sweet of you, but I’m up to my neck in work right now. We’ve got sweeps month coming up, you know.”

  “You have to eat, don’t you?”

  How typical of this star-fucker not to take no for an answer. “Prue,” she said evenly, “I’d love to, but I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

  “That’s such a shame. I just know you’d adore the Rands.” What Rands? Certainly not those Rands.

  “Russell just called up out of the blue last night and said that he and Chloe were in town.”

  The very ones. How in the world…?

  Prue giggled. “I told Russell he was naughty not to give me more warning, but…what can you do with creative people?”

  “You’re so right,” she replied. “How long are they here for?” She had wanted to interview the designer for ages. The Forum might not be the ideal auspices under which to meet Russell Rand and his new bride, but…

  “Just till Thursday.” said Prue. “They’re on their way to an AIDS benefit in L.A.”

  “Ah,” she replied, wondering why the hell none of her producers had heard about this. She might have been spared the indignity of dealing with Prue Giroux. “Maybe, if I jiggle my schedule a little…”

  “We aren’t convening until two,” said Prue. “You’ll still have time to change.” There was a note of sly triumph in her voice; Mary Ann wanted to kill her. “I’ve decided to wear the oldest Rand in my closet. Just to give him a giggle.”

  “Well…sounds like lots of fun.”

  “Doesn’t it?” said Prue, thoroughly pleased with herself.

  Mary Ann made a point of arriving late at Prue’s Nob Hill town house. The usual crowd was assembled in the fussy Diana Phipps living room, converging on the famous couple like flies on carrion. Keeping her distance from this sorry spectacle, she headed for the canapés and waited for her hostess to track her down.

  “Well,” came a voice from behind. “Look who’s here.”

  It was Father Paddy Starr—red-faced, beaming, and resplendent in a raspberry shirt with a clerical collar. “Hi, Father.”

  “I saw you yesterday at D‘orothea’s, but I don’t think you saw me.”

  “No. I guess not.”

  “Prue and I were in the front room. You were in the back with a gentleman.”

  She fussed over the canapés, feigning disinterest. Father Paddy was too much of a fixture at the station to be entrusted with even the sketchiest information about Burke. The situation was ticklish enough as it was.

  “Have you met them yet?” he asked.

  She selected the palest cube of cheese she could find and popped it into her mouth. “Who?”

  He rolled his eyes impatiently. “Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower.”

  “
If you mean them,” said Mary Ann, nodding toward the corner where the Rands were being eaten alive, “I think they could use a little breather, don’t you?”

  Father Paddy selected an almond from a bowl of mixed nuts. “They’re used to it.”

  “Maybe so, but it makes us look like hicks. So desperate and overeager.”

  “Not me,” said the priest. “I’m waiting my turn like a gentleman.”

  “I didn’t mean you.” She gave him a conciliatory look. “It just makes me embarrassed for the city, that’s all.”

  This produced a sleepy, avuncular smile. “Don’t you worry about the city, darling.”

  She recoiled privately at the “darling” part, since it presumed the sort of cloying chumminess Father Paddy shared with Prue Giroux. Mary Ann simply didn’t trust him enough to get campy with him.

  The crowd parted a little, permitting a brief, dramatic glimpse of Chloe Rand. A pin spot intended for Prue’s Hockney struck her face and rendered it classic: silky auburn hair, very short, and an elegant Castilian nose, which seemed to begin its descent in the middle of her forehead. Mary Ann was impressed.

  “Isn’t she stunning?” said Father Paddy.

  “Very striking, yes.”

  “Did you see the spread in Vanity Fair?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s wearing a Rand Band,” said the priest. “According to Prue.”

  “A what?”

  “That’s what he calls his new line of wedding rings. Rand Bands.”

  “Cute,” said Mary Ann. “I thought they were supposed to be affordable.”

  “They are.”

  “And you think that’s her real wedding ring?”

  Father Paddy smirked. “What a naughty girl you are.”

  The crowd shifted again, and Russell Rand’s famous profile came knifing into view. Scrubbed and tan, athletically lean, he looked uncannily like his wife, which lent a distinctly incestuous appeal to the intimacy they expressed so freely—and so frequently—in the presence of others.

  “He bought her a Phantom jet for her birthday,” said Father Paddy.

  “Really?”

  The priest nodded, widening his eyes. “Not a shabby little giftie, eh?”

  “No,” she replied, almost mesmerized by the miraculous synchronism of those two shining faces. What must it be like to present such a picture of unity to the world? To share with someone else a life in which work and play are so artfully interwoven?