Turning Idolater

by Edward C. Patterson

  A rather Nelly man in a check jacket and striped cravat was delighted by Philip’s presence. He remarked on his physical beauty (both Philip’s and his own) and made more than his share of age appropriate comments. Philip tried to remain silent on this issue, because the man — Horace Paddington III, was at least sixty and conspicuously stag. In fact, Philip chalked most of this jargon up to the green-eyed monster.

  A brace of chattering couples stood sentry in the hallway, sipping their drinks, munching their caviar treats and occasionally adding their opinion into the current of discussion, which Philip guessed concerned the political state of the nation, but since it drifted in and out of various arts funding issues, budget cuts, the collapse of the trumpet section at the Philharmonic and the deplorable condition of the continual war between Amazon.com and Ingrams, Philip hadn’t a notion what it was ultimately about. Even when his opinion was sought, he could do no more than nod and offer a broad, agreeable grin, heaven help us.

  “There’s the lad,” boomed a voice — a dramatic voice that caused Philip to spill his Cosmo.

  Thomas latched an arm onto a lanky man, who towered above the crowd. The man wore a red dinner jacket over a green satin shirt. A strange tasseled cap covered his baldpate, which Thomas explained later, was a fez — a prized possession and souvenir of a long-standing gig in Morocco.

  “Philip,” Thomas said. “May I introduce you to Lars Hamilton?”

  Philip shuffled his drink from left hand to right, extending a welcome. However, Mr. Hamilton, who probably expected a response more in line with The Lars Hamilton? brushed it aside. He scanned Philip from head to toe, and then assumed a studied pose.

  “Yes, Thomas, he would do nicely.”

  Philip suddenly recognized that this might be one of those opportunities that Thomas mentioned. Philip cocked his head to match Mr. Hamilton’s.

  “He has no experience,” Thomas said, “but he certainly has the look.”

  “He does have the look,” Lars said. “Turn around, my dear lad.” His voice resonated above the sizzling conversations, trumping Philip’s awareness. Philip slowly turned, and then felt embarrassed. Was he being sold on the auction block?

  “Tee, is this necessary?”

  Thomas clapped his hand on Philip’s shoulder. “Lars is the director of the Provincetown New Family Players, a prestigious acting troupe that tries out in P’Town and then generally circulates to other venues.”

  “Acting?”

  “Not just acting,” Lars said. He looked Philip square in the eye. “Premium theatrics. A fine repertoire from Shakespeare to Busch — we do it all. Fully draped in Elizabethan clo’ or stark naked on a balance beam — classical to eclectic, we are the full theater experience.”

  “And you think I could act?” Philip asked. He had never considered this. The thought was too pregnant to consider now, but it was amusing and a far sight clearer than the state of the National Endowment at BAM, whatever that fuck that was.

  “I don’t know,” Lars said. He glanced at Thomas. “No experience, you say. But from the virginal thrust of tongue and hand comes the sweet hummingbird on the lea.”

  Thomas winked. Philip now realized that Thomas had no inclination to have Philip captured by this thespian charlatan, offering him up as some evening entertainment. In fact, Philip spied Florian on the periphery grinning like a pinched cow, probably hoping that Philip would follow suit and become the fool. Philip would not oblige him.

  “Indulge me,” Lars said. “Cast you eyes into the distance. To a point beyond that space. Over there.”

  Philip looked in the direction of the balcony. “Like this?”

  “Yes. Splendid. Now tilt your head up and say — Purty.”

  “Purty?”

  “Not perdy. Purty, with a twang. Imagine yourself on a farm at a distance point in time and looking to the skies, seeing the wonder of heaven in the cloud lands and you say . . .”

  Philip twitched. He gazed out and up. “Purty?”

  “Again.”

  “Purty.”

  “Purfect.”

  Lars Hamilton nodded, satisfied with this sample audition. “We shall let you know.” He sauntered toward the waiters with an eye on either the crab cakes or another extemporaneous audition. “We shall let you . . .”

  Flo snickered. “He never changes.”

  “Well, you cannot rule these things out,” Thomas said.

  Philip felt isolated. “What just happened?”

  “Lars is an old fixture here,” Flo said. “He starred years ago in the stage version of Tapioca Times. Closed in three nights, but that’s another story. He still shows up at all of Tee’s parties. I should ask Miriam to remove him from the list. He hasn’t had a hit in years.”

  “Then, what’s all this purdy shit about?” Philip asked.

  “O’Neill,” Thomas said. “He is directing a production of Desire Under the Elms at Provincetown and he has been casting for weeks.”

  Philip shrugged.

  “You’ve never seen Desire?” Flo snapped as if it should have been prerequisite to an invitation.

  Philip rounded on him. “Listen, Flo. I know you think I know nothing, but I know lots of shit that’s more important than O’Neill or BAM or half of the crap that’s floating here tonight.” His voice happened to fall into one of those awkward points in communal conversation when, fate would have it, silence prevailed. All heads turned. Flo’s eyes opened wide.

  “I told you this was a mistake.” Flo whispered to Thomas, but even a whisper served as an echo after Philip’s remark.

  “Philip,” Thomas said.

  “Excuse me,” Philip stuttered.

  Philip retreated from the room seeking the sanctuary of the kitchen. He closed his eyes trying to make this gathering disappear. He expected Thomas to follow him, but Thomas instead restarted the conversations. They were astonishing conversations. Philip clearly heard various voices blurting we must make allowances. He’s young. He will learn in time. Are you sure this is a wise move, Thomas? The conversations jolted Philip, who felt out of his league. This came as no surprise, but he really wanted to stretch himself and at least stay silent enough to convince the company that he was civilized. Was he trying to be as pretentious?

  Philip also wondered what kept Sprakie and date. Perhaps he changed his mind and wasn’t coming, but that would be a most un-Sprakie move. He also wondered how Sprakie would mix with this crowd. Now that he thought of it, Sprakie’s absence could be a blessing — one less thing for Florian Townsend’s sneer.

  Philip needed a drink, and not a Cosmo. He wasn’t old enough to drink, so he guessed that Tee was breaking the law here. He hoped that none of these phoney-balonies were in law enforcement. He clenched his fists, and then opened his eyes.

  “Are you better?” came a voice.

  Philip jumped. Sitting at the kitchen table was a man he recognized. When did he slip in? The gentleman was sipping a tall lager and poked his fork through a neat stack of chocolate covered strawberries.

  “You,” Philip said. “I’m glad to see you. I’ve a few questions for you.”

  “I bet you have,” said the man. “I might have a few answers, but on the other hand, I might not.”

  “Philip.” Thomas had come to the kitchen door. He spied the man, who had pushed a chair out inviting Philip to sit.

  “If you don’t mind, Thomas,” said the man, “I’d like to have a word with the Flaxen One.”

  “Of course, Uncle Dean.”

  Philip sat. Thomas returned to the company.

  Of course.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Spinner

  Dean Cardoza was a man of means who didn’t need to work for a living — yet he did. His hobbies were many and were his work. He cut a jovial dash in the kitchen. His honey blonde hair had long since turned white. His clean-shaven cheeks had given way to a fine Sint Niklaus beard. Still, his voice was as satin at age sixty-eight as it was at twenty-five and his search-light
yellow eyes were a shade sharper than his nephew Florian’s mottled green ones. Philip had never seen such searching eyes. They had pierced his soul on that fateful first meeting, when this geezer called for a slow strip and nothing more, and then laid on the first edition as a tip. Philip hadn’t given that encounter much thought, except that it brought him the benefit of a good read — a compelling read. Then, this elder was everywhere — in Tee’s opening words in the chat room; in the pages of Thomas’ first edition; in the coincidental connection to Florian Townsend. Now, over strawberries and beer, this man came center stage as if he were the star of a Lars Hamilton production, gazing out and voicing that pervasive word — purty.

  “Why did you give it to me?” Philip asked.

  “Have a strawberry,” Uncle Dean said, holding one out on his fork.

  “Don’t try to change the subject,” Philip said. This man caused his change of condition and he sensed it was no accident. Philip had to know — deserved to know.

  “I’m not changing the subject,” Dean said. “This strawberry is the subject.” He removed it from the fork and rolled it between his fingers. “You see, a strawberry is a common fruit grown by the million, low to the ground and many to the vine. There’s nothing special about a strawberry until . . . until you dip it in chocolate and serve it with beer.”

  Philip chuckled. The man was charming — a philosopher at the kitchen table, who appeared more wizard than probable. Still the homily struck home. Philip reached out and snapped the strawberry from Dean’s hand and popped it into his own mouth.

  “That tells me how,” Philip said between chews. “It doesn’t tell me why.”

  “Need there be a why? Can’t spontaneity count for something? You were a cherub in my midst and worthy of a generous gift.”

  Philip sighed. He realized that the man was going to be a Sphinx. “Yes. I was completely captured by the book. The words took my breath away and I followed the Pequod and her journey well. But if I hadn’t met Tee, I wouldn’t have ever known that you had given me something beyond accepting. In fact, if I had known its worth then, I wouldn’t have accepted it.”

  Dean raised his eyebrow. “Would you have accepted a gold watch — a cheap Rolex by comparison? Or a few months in Montego Bay?”

  Phil smiled. “At least I would have known what I was getting into.”

  “You might think that and still could be wrong. I wasn’t buying your time.”

  “You did pay.”

  “If you think that the paltry amount I gave you in cash to unwrap your skinny ass in the candlelight was payment, then you’re cheaper than I thought. You surprise me.”

  “My ass is not skinny,” Philip snapped. “And I’m not cheap. I mean, I do things fair and square.”

  “In any case, the book was a harpoon to drag you off course.” Uncle Dean reached across and touched Philip’s hand. “I am not in the custom of surfing the porn sites, you know.”

  “Then why did you break custom?”

  “I had my reasons, just as I have my reasons for not surfing there again.”

  Philip stole another strawberry, rolling it to and fro along the table’s edge. “Still, you sent Tee there. You directed him to me.”

  “That I did.”

  Philip shrugged. They had reached the hurdle. He meant not to continue this conversation without some explanation from the good old man, who might be nothing more than a manipulative bastard of a geezer.

  “Thomas needed to release some tension. I suggested that he visit the site, and yes . . . I told him to give you my regards. As you see, it’s worked out for the best.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “You have left that wretched web site. You’re here in decent surroundings, and . . . I hear that you are looking for employment suitable to your talents.”

  Philip stood. He regarded Uncle Dean as a meddlesome old fogy now. Philip had never asked to leave manluv, yet he had to admit that it was ultimately his own choice that he did. Still, the circumstances were set in motion by this man — these men, if Thomas was a co-conspirator. Philip loomed over Uncle Dean’s beer.

  “Tell me honestly, if you can be honest,” Philip said. “Am I some experiment between you and Tee.”

  “Experiment? Like Liza Doolittle? Hardly. How Thomas has proceeded with you is not my affair. That he wants the best for you is evident by his actions, and that you are gingerly cautious is also evident. I applaud that. Never trust to blindness. It will always lead you astray.”

  Philip sat again, gazing off toward the sink. Had Dean Cardoza provided satisfactory answers? Was he really an innocent eccentric hoping to change the course of a fellow human being with a gentle nudge in the form of a valuable first edition? Had the rest fallen into place beyond Uncle Dean’s control? Philip wondered, but as thin as the old man’s explanation was, it could satisfy if Philip wanted quick closure. After all, Philip was a low-to-the-ground strawberry, one of a million that had just happened now to be dipped in chocolate and served beside the lager. The trick was to avoid being consumed.

  “Now,” Uncle Dean said, his mood changing from sophist to Chris Kringle, “about employment. I own New York City’s oldest continually operated book emporium — Cardoza Books. It’s unique in that it has stood on its foundations for as long as those foundations have stood. It has the distinction of having some of the world’s greatest names cross its threshold.”

  Philip grinned. “Madonna?”

  “Madonna. Do you mean the singer or the Virgin Mary?”

  “Very funny.”

  “No. Great names. Rand. Dreiser. Hemmingway. Cather. Ferber. Melville.”

  “Melville?”

  “Yes, and that is how I have been able to thrive on a bevy of rare books, because when their owners came through the portals, their first editions were worth a few bits. My family was wise enough to gather these orphans into an asylum of beneficence until value shimmered over the bindings like gold in the Klondike.”

  Philip just stared into those searchlight eyes. “Melville,” he mumbled. “And what would I do in a place like that?”

  “You would become an apprentice to the book — a Squire to Lord Incunabulum, fabled Page in the Court of the Paste Pots and Bleaches.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Uncle Dean stood now, and with some effort, because either his legs were too stiff to bring this mountain to its feet or the lager was too heavy to balance his thick wood on aging slopes. He wobbled. Philip steadied him.

  “I’m all right, Flaxen One. And so are you. You are worthy of a try.”

  “You’re not going to make me say — Purty.”

  Dean laughed. “No. No. That O’Neill fellow never left us a copy of that old chestnut, but we do have three 2nd pressings of both parts of Mourning Becomes Elektra. That O’Neill was a drama queen, if ever there was one. No. Just have Thomas bring you into the shop and I’ll entice you with cobwebs of spun gold.”

  “Intriguing.”

  “Just so. You will find that I am a spinner akin to the Norns.”

  Philip grinned. He found Uncle Dean a spinner akin to Lars Hamilton. Suddenly, the kitchen door opened. Thomas popped his head through.

  “Philip, your friends are here.”

  Dean Cardoza brightened further. “Thomas, this lad is amenable to inspecting the bindery. Perhaps . . .”

  “Of course, Uncle Dean. I shall bring him down tomorrow.”

  “I’d like to meet your friends, Philip,” Dean said. “I have a keen eye for . . .”

  He paused. Another head popped through the door, one that clearly distressed the old man. It was Sprakie.

  “Little Ishie,” Sprakie announced. “I’ve fought my way through Fort Knox and I’m . . .” His eyes met Dean Cardoza’s. “Jesus Marie.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pas de Quatre

  1

  Philip followed Sprakie out of the kitchen quite bemused by his friend’s strange reaction to Dean Cardoza. Sprakie didn’t
even wait for an introduction. Nor did Uncle Dean, who reengaged his strawberries. Thomas clasped Philip’s shoulder, slowing his pace.

  “I already introduced Robert and his friend around,” Thomas said.

  Philip halted, and then turned. “I’m glad you did, because I can’t remember any of their names except that one there.” He pointed to Lars Hamilton, who stood like a lighthouse above the sea. He had engaged another young man for audition — a lad Philip thought he recognized. Still, Philip had lost Sprakie in the shuffle.

  “Is there something wrong?” Thomas asked.

  “I don’t know,” Philip said. “Your Uncle . . .”

  “He’s Flo’s uncle.”

  “Whatever. He’s nice as far as it goes, and he’s offered me some kind of position in his store — a mysterious apprenticeship, or so he says, but . . .”

  “You will do fine with him. You shall learn a great deal about . . .”

  “I’m sure of it, Tee. But somehow I feel that we’re a sideshow for him, like one of Mr. Three-Night-Wonder’s little productions. In fact, I feel like a freak show, on exhibit for everyone in the room.”

  Philip turned to face that room. The guests were engaged in the consumption of splendid vittles and also themselves — a cannibal feast of the mind. As they chattered about this and that and whichever and whatever, they did so only to hear their own voices, to validate that they were still breathing, because if it weren’t for the useless crap they spluttered, they might be dead for all they knew. They might be dead from all they knew. Philip shuddered. Thomas squeezed him.

  “It was too soon to throw you to the wolves, I know now,” he said. “I’m sorry.”