by Sky Gilbert
Now, I don’t know if I agree that Barbara Pym was a whore, or whether being a whore would make her a good writer. But I certainly agree that the political correctness that characterized turn-of-the-century politics served to undeservedly demonize Philip Larkin. But if you’re trying to understand my affection for King, or searching for some deep emotional identification I might have with him — it may just be coming clear.
He is, for me, a project. Because I, unlike you, think — cyber-realities or not — that King is a symbol of the ironic triumph of post-structuralism and postmodernism. King’s life proves how the murderousness of living a fantastical, mythical, ultimately virtual life — his just happened to centre on a suicidal paradigm of homosexuality — could kill a person in reality. Are you going to argue about whether or not Dash really existed? It’s not really here nor there, though, is it? Because the matter of his life, the lingering detritus, the trash of his extant papers, still exists for me to analyze.
I did go back to the Tranquility Spa. I am going to tell you more about that place; I have to. There are . . . revelations. You need to hear them because you have become too cool and philosophical. And though you were always both cool and philosophical, there is now something missing. There is a subtext to your last diatribe. It is present in all its formal aspects.
If I transmit an avalanche of words and, yes, memories now, it is because I have nothing left to lose. Yet I do not want to lose you. And I do not wish our discussions to become purely academic. What could be worse? I don’t even have to write a thesis. Sometimes I think I am writing it only so as not to be forgotten by you. I have gone through so many drafts. You have been at times scornful of my efforts. Well, maybe not of my efforts — though it occasionally feels that way. But you have been scornful of my results. You must always be uncompromising and yet always insist that you love me. Maybe it’s only that — maybe it’s only that you don’t say that you love me enough. This makes me sound very much like myself . . . but who else can I be?
Okay, my final trip to the Tranquility Spa. I say final only because it seems to me that you will stop being my friend if I ever go again. That’s what you’ve managed to communicate, between the lines. (Am I wrong? You must simply tell me.) But I don’t know if I can stop going there. Are you asking me to choose between you and the Tranquility Spa? You haven’t so much said it as you have implied it.
Jesus, I don’t know what to do.
Do you know what I did? Do you know what really happened that night with Mark? The problem with all addiction programs is that they come at you with shit like “Drugs are bad! Drugs are unpleasant! Gee, no one wants to do drugs!” Excuse me, but everyone wants to do them. Who doesn’t ? Maybe June Allyson? Yes, of course — they hold off oblivion and death by offering pseudo-oblivion and death, one that is ultimately connected to the real thing. But they also happen to be really fun. They are fun in reality. The kind of fantasy that drugs offer are of the body, not cyberspace. In this way, they are real.
Well, on the night in question I was on a binge with Mark. It was the end of our relationship, the beginning of Mickey. And the reason I found Mickey was because of that night, because of what happened. Mark was on about shit that evening. Jesus, he was a disappointment. At first, you know, I thought he was “the one.” After Sid, he seemed like a revelation. But, of course, he was an actor, or fancied himself one, and I just could not be romantically involved with an actor any longer.
Do you know the difference between a good actor and a bad actor? In real life you can always tell. A bad actor is trying to act all the time in his real life — trying to be flamboyant, bursting with personality, being sweet and charming, or aloof and intense. A real actor wears all these masks, too, but not because he wants to. Take me, for instance. It isn’t that I am a person who loves impersonation and performance to such an extent that I must, at every moment of my life, be the central, dazzling, spinning figure. No, it’s simply that I impersonate, perform, entertain all the time. Even when I don’t wish to do it. In fact, one of the reasons I used to self-medicate was to stop myself from performing. Of course, it didn’t work like that at first. At first when I got high, I would perform as if on steroids. But then would come exhaustion and oblivion — and I would finally stop singing for my supper. And with that came a tremendous relief. The bad actor, in real life — you cannot miss him once I tell you how to spot him — is always trying, unsuccessfully, to appear uncontrollably vivacious, unhinged, madcap and overwhelming. He is not, however, actually compelled by his personality to be that way. Mark was like that. He had lots of personality. But that personality was a mask he was making an effort to assume — in order to be part of “the Club.”
Yes, I call it the Club — which I know sounds elitist. But really — apologies to Groucho Marx — it is a club that you’d really rather not be part of. When we used to hang out in the old days, with people involved in the entertainment industry, it was always evident that there were some who were members of the Club and some who were not. The members of the Club were people like me, Montgomery Clift, Marlene — people who were possessed with the need to be onstage twenty-four hours a day. Who knows how it happened or what particular disease we had — or whether we caught it in vitro. We were not trying to be special; we just were. It was a cross we had to bear. True, we had learned to make a living out of what was really a disability: the inability to be real. But the only thing we could do, many of us, was simply to get so smashed that we spun out into the night, laughing, talking and performing, until we collapsed. Elaine Stritch was like this. There were other members of the Club who somehow dealt with their infirmities without drugs. Noël Coward was one. I don’t know how he did it.
Then there were those on the periphery. People who were not so very talented but were so beautiful and charming that we didn’t care they weren’t talented. People like Dean Martin and Elizabeth Taylor. Then there were the somewhat talented people who worked very hard. June Allyson was one of those. They were often God-fearing, and I was generally afraid of them — for good reason. And then there were the hangers-on. These were people who urgently and passionately dreamed of being members of the Club. But they knew that they weren’t and never would be. However, they were still possessed with becoming a member. So they performed in real life with a furious urgency that was beyond compare. It was very pitiful to watch, and I imagine very tiring to sustain. Now, at first I thought that Mark was a Dean Martin — someone beautiful and charming we would allow to sit in on the fringes. People like that never really care about being in the Club, because they always get more attention than they can handle anyway. But I gradually began to realize that Mark was not a Club member at all. Instead, he was one of the most unappealing and grasping of those who spend every waking moment trying to be a part of it.
All this became clear one crazy night when I got into several bizarre fights. Soon after that I broke up with Mark and found Mickey. With Mickey I could be blissfully quiet, whereas with Mark I never could. I never before experienced the kind of silence I first discovered with Mickey. It was pure acceptance. It may have been due to his unmatchable passivity, but it was Zen-like. There was something about him that would not be moved by life, or shaken by it. He would just live. He taught me all this — at least, he made me realize it was possible.
Anyway, hanging out with Mark had become a trial. He and I became more frenzied in our evenings, purposefully crowding them with incident. It was a way of not being alone with each other. When I was alone with him, I would become disgusted and angry. I would want to shake his big curly head and say, “Stop trying! You’re never going to get into the Club! And you would be such an attractive non-member! And maybe you’re even pretty and charming enough to be an honorary member!” But no, he would never understand that. So he spent every day insanely organizing the evening, trying to find things to do when I wasn’t performing. This was so we might have a sparkling, unforgettable time — an
evening that would make me happy. But nothing ever worked.
When I woke up, he was sitting on the bed at the Barbizon — newspapers scattered around, with coffee and crumpets on a tray at his side. It always amazed him — and me — how deeply I was capable of sleeping. It shouldn’t have amazed us, considering all the downers I took before dropping into my nightly coma. And when I woke — which was the oddest thing to do in my condition, like being hit by a truck — it wasn’t the gentle feeling one normally associates with greeting the morning. It wasn’t stirring, murmuring, curling out of the covers and gradually acclimatizing oneself to the dewy morning light. Suddenly my eyes were open, looking at everything, and seeing everything, and it hurt like hell.
Mark was sitting on my bed in his dressing gown, looking tousled and ravishing, as he always did. No fault there, no fault there ever. And when my eyes suddenly sprang open, he — though I had told him not to — flicked on the desk light. I thought I was going to die. Was he hoping for a dramatic effect? Well, he got one. The morning didn’t start well, beginning with me yelling at him to turn off the light. Actually, I suppose it was more of a moan. I could never have managed to yell. He did turn off the light, and turned towards me. I told him to always give me at least a few minutes to get accustomed to life again after being trapped at the bottom of the deep, dark well. Eventually I propped myself up and managed a sip of coffee. He said, “The Allen Brothers are playing tonight at the Schubert.”
I was surprised. I had only seen them in Los Angeles and always expected them, for some reason, to appear only on the West Coast. And the fact was, I had not really seen them. I had been very drunk and had only caught the last few minutes of their act. But from the little of him that I had witnessed, I had fallen in love with Peter Allen. I mean, literally in love. He was a member of the Club for sure. In fact, he was the Club personified. There would be no stopping him even if he put his mind to destroy himself. And there’s something about that kind of talent, which — even though I understand the possibilities of tragedy and the suffering latent in it — I do very much enjoy. I knew he had to be a kindred spirit.
When I had fully understood what Mark was offering, I said, “Yes, of course we must go.” It was nearly five o’clock; this was when my day began. So it meant three hours of getting ready. And that always seemed like not enough time. I did take a pill or two, even though I didn’t like to do too many before dinner. Though dinner at that time was just a salad, I knew I had to eat something. So somehow I got my skinny ass out of there and into a cab with Mark and we were at the Schubert Theatre just before curtain.
It was amazing seeing them when I wasn’t high. I’d had a few uppers to get me dressed, that was all. And the act had such an effect on me that I didn’t drink at the bar during the intermission, which made Mark insecure. The other Allen brother — I can never remember his name — was not as memorable as Peter. He certainly was very pretty and charming and taller. And looked as if he might be a charming-type member of the Club. But Peter was on fire — I mean, when he picked up those maracas it was terminally infectious. And the ballads — I can’t even talk about the ballads. I rarely see shit like that. They really made me want to cry. I so wanted him to write me a song. And, of course, he didn’t need to be all that good. It was a one-night-only gig — a Thursday night on an off week. But I could tell he was the kind of performer who just couldn’t help being brilliant. He was definitely singing for his supper. But the place wasn’t sold out, as no one knew much about them. Peter and his brother were Australian, after all.
So after the show I ran ahead of Mark to the dressing room. I think he was put out by the intensity of my fascination with Peter. On the other hand, Mark knew my passion for him was definitely on the wane. I did my usual thing of shyly knocking. I mean, there’s no way I would ever force myself on anyone. And my desire to see Peter was so huge that I thought it might be embarrassing if I didn’t control myself.
They let us in when the boys were in their underwear because I was who I was. And the glimpse of those two lithe lovely furry things (they were both appealingly hairy) bounding about and smoking and dipping into the after-show Scotch (which soon we all dipped into) had me very excited. I noticed that Peter did all the talking, and that was obviously okay with both of them. And Peter was so obviously a member of the Club, a wacky, too-intense energy in his eyes, and a vulnerability that he obviously did not find easy to control, but did. Of course, he was a fucking hoot — filthy, dirty, going on about his own dick and his brother’s in their underwear — and who had the bigger one. His brother did, by the way. I found this interesting. And I had a feeling that Peter knew I found it interesting. His brother was also possibly straight, or at least one of those people for whom sexuality was not an issue. This also I found tantalizing.
We decided to go to Mario’s Deli, which at the time had a pool table. This was where the trouble really started. We all sat down at the bar next to the pool table and I ordered a round of drinks. At the time I did not think I was making an extraordinary amount of noise. On the other hand, it’s possible I was. Peter had been telling some story — one that was kind of misogynistic — about the disgusting fluid in the pouch of a kangaroo. He had put his hand into one once. It was so fucking funny — even though the whole thing was really about a horror of vaginas. I knew that, but listen, I didn’t give a fuck. Hell, I like a good dirty laugh as much as the next guy. I never expected Peter to put his hand in my vagina, but God he was funny. And I was laughing — too loudly, I guess — and there were lewd gestures. I’m sure there were. We wound up moving around and doing all sorts of shit. I guess we were dancing.
There was some guy there with his wife and they were playing pool. It was obviously a big deal for him and the little lady to be out on the town. I bet he even used that expression, out on the town. And she was being very ladylike, flirting and giggling in a way that made me want to kill her. I fucking hate coyness, especially in women. And I hate it when women pretend to be idiots. Of course, she may actually have been an idiot. But she was also pretending to be one, which can be doubly annoying.
Anyway, when we got to the point where we were spilling our drinks, swearing and gesticulating wildly and obscenely about kangaroos, I happened to knock the arm of the guy from Kalamazoo with the wife. He must have been from a place like Kalamazoo. Well, it screwed up one of his shots. Big deal. I mean, who cares? You’re in a bar. You’re not Minnesota Fats. This is not a professional pool tournament. You’re just playing with your dumb girlfriend. So give me a break. But no — he had to take umbrage. He stopped playing and said, “Excuse me!” in a very loud voice. And he would not stop saying it until we ceased and desisted with our kangaroo story and listened to him. So finally we did. And we were all standing around looking at him and his dumb girlfriend. And he said, glancing at her, “An apology might be appreciated.”
I just looked at him and said,“I’m not going to fucking apologize to you — you’re from Kalamazoo!” This set Peter into hysterics beyond measure. So much so that his brother tried to help him. And Mark kind of moved in front of him, afraid this dufus was going to punch Peter in the face.
But instead, the dufus from Kalmazoo turned to me and said, “Oh, I see. I guess you don’t apologize to anyone — because you’re the famous blah-dy fucking blah-blah!” He used my star name with all the contempt he could muster. And this enraged me. I was unreasonably high by that time, so I just picked up a billiard ball and lobbed it at him. I didn’t hurl it at him in a rage (as the management later claimed). I just tossed it, easy, like when you’re playing catch. You know, you just lob one to first base? In fact, I thought he might catch it. But the ball just hit the wall, and it didn’t even do any damage. He didn’t take this very well. He rushed at me. And I thought, Wow, this guy has no problem with beating up a lady, does he? But then I remembered that I probably didn’t appear to be one. His wife or girlyfriend was embarrassed or frightened. . . . Je
sus, she pissed me off.
And then Mark, in his effort to show he was just as nuts as I was, pushed me out of the way and started to wrestle with the guy. This again just set Peter and me off laughing. Then the bartender came around and yelled, “I don’t care who the hell you are, get out!” Peter and his brother and I just rolled out the back door. This left Mark, as usual, to deal with the consequences of my actions. I didn’t find out what happened until the next morning. The bar staff didn’t see us go out the door and had no idea where we were. But someone had called the police and escorted Mark out of the bar and charged him with assault. As if it was him who threw the fucking billiard ball at the guy from Kalamazoo.
When the rest of us opened that back door, it was like we were in heaven. It was one of those rumpled little tin roofs over a couple of garbage cans. And there was a tree out there. It was late fall, and a gentle rain was dropping persistently, causing a racket on the tin roof. It was like something out of Lady and the Tramp — you know, when they eat spaghetti on a plate outside the door of the pizza place? And the three of us staggered around, trying to get our bearings. And then we realized we were getting a little wet. So Peter and his brother leaned against the walls beside the garbage cans.
Peter was looking straight up at the tin roof, and his brother was kind of curled against the wall beside him holding his head, as if he had a headache. I knew what God meant for me to do. Far be it from me to question him. It was time to give one, or both of them, a blow job. I really didn’t care if neither of them wanted a blow job, or if they both did. My first choice was Peter. I just wanted to get some of that talent inside me. Not that I needed it. But it would be nice to see what talent like that tasted like.