The vessel sang its song, a loud horn blown over the prow as if to applaud along with the tourists.
“The gods smiled on you, Philip.”
“How so?”
“I have been on this boat every season without fail and only five times have seen the critters come from the deep.”
“Really?”
“Shy, they are not.” Thomas draped his arm over Philip’s shoulder as the prow aimed ashore now. “Cautious. I believe that they have a memory of us that has passed in whale-song for generations. Beware the land shark, it goes.”
Philip smiled. “I don’t blame them. The book tells how we hunted and slaughtered them . . . and for what?”
“It was business. No more. No less. Their carcass yields unimaginable wealth in oil and fragrance. They were the energy source of their time.”
Philip looked to sea, his eyes squinting to spy the whales again. However, the sea spread calm, lost within the boat’s wake. He wanted to see them again. He knew he could read those lustrous words that laced the pages with shimmering sound and sense, but he wanted the vision now — and not the mind’s eye. He sighed. Perhaps, next year. Tee had been a jolly navigator for such things.
“I wish they hadn’t gone.”
“Do you mean those whales of old — the potted and boiled blubber fests that lured the whalers to their enterprise?”
“No. I mean these whales. They were a sight to see.”
Thomas chuckled. “Now there is a sight to see.”
Philip squinted again thinking that the great creatures were cresting again. However, Thomas turned him about and directed his attention to the nearing wharf. Philip scanned the landfall — the rocky shore, the ramble of gables and turrets, and the over lording high tower. He couldn’t imagine that any of these could trump the sight he had just seen. Suddenly, he spotted what appeared to be a naked youth jumping and waving to the boat.
“Is that . . .”
It was. It was Sprakie, and not naked, but nearly so, hootin’ and hollerin’, scaring the gulls from the trash barrels. Philip grinned. He was glad to see Sprakie in such good spirits. It had been a haul since the manluv murder to get the Sprakmeister back into the groove.
“Lahaina Roads,” Thomas said.
“Where’s that?”
“In Hawaii. When the ships approached Lahaina Roads, the female villagers would welcome the whalers with flowers and hoots and open legs. I think if Sprakie could do it, he would spring into the soup and dazzle us with lays.”
“Potato Chips?”
Thomas laughed, and then squeezed Philip’s shoulders just as the craft approached the wharf’s outer margin.
2
“Hello, sailors,” Sprakie yelled, waving his hand and butt to the arriving boat.
Although this greeting was meant for Tee and Philip, there was more than one sailor aboard willing to return the greeting. There were also some fascinated tourists off course from that famous Trollop tour. They showed a host of reactions, from covering the childrens’ eyes to presenting upturned and Presbyterian noses, as if the clam beds didn’t stink enough.
Philip bolted down the gangplank. “You’re a sight. You’ll burn to a crisp.”
“My skin may be as soft as Elijah Wood’s ass, but it’s as tough as Leona Helmsley’s heart.” Sprakie did a little spin followed by a gracious bow — that to Thomas. “So you’ve been to the sea in ships. Did you find Charlie the Tuna?”
“No,” Philip said, grabbing Sprakie’s arm and walking him along the wharf toward Commercial Street. “I got to see whales. Real whales. Big whales. Two of them, and they raised their tails out of the water and did a dance . . . just for me. It was spectacular. I can’t remember seeing anything so wonderful in all my life.”
Sprakie stop short. His joy had evaporated. He stared at Thomas — more an accusation than an affront. He clicked his tongue. “More wonderful than that guy we spied at Splash. You know the one.” He juggled his hands to his crotch. “The one with the big gun and hefty cannonballs.”
Philip smiled. “This was different. I can see guns and cannonballs in the mirror. I can spy dozens of cute asses on any street in New York . . . but the whales.”
“It was a special moment, Sprakie,” Thomas intervened.
“You don’t say.” He cocked his head at Philip — a mother hen assessing her chick. “Well, I’m a landlubber and prefer my whales in a whole different sort of blow. Speaking of which, Mr. Dye, could you spare Philip for the rest of the afternoon?”
“Some place special?”
Philip gazed toward the wharf. A sea gull was perched on a pylon. It twitched at him as if to invite him to fly away. Philip sighed.
“We have plans, Sprakie,” he said. “The theater.”
“Desire Under the Elms,” Thomas said. “However, the curtain rises at seven-thirty, Philip. You can go play with Sprakie. I can get some work done.”
Sprakie grabbed Thomas’ arm. “Wonderful. I know Philip wants to go to the Tea Dance at The Boatslip. Who doesn’t?”
“Who, indeed,” Thomas quipped.
“The Boatslip,” Philip said, his mind shifting from the waves to the thumpa-thumpa of a good afternoon of hot dancing surrounded by a different kind of sea. “That would be great, but I still need to change.”
“Change then,” Sprakie said. “I’m going as I am. Get into your thong.”
Thomas cleared his throat. “Maybe those khaki shorts and the red Izod shirt.”
Philip grinned. He did go shopping before he left New York and with every occasion in mind.
Sprakie waved his hand at Thomas. “You’re dressed like the professor on Gilligan’s Island, so don’t tell Philip what to wear. When it comes to clubbing and outdoor frolicking, I’m the expert. You go to your computer and that creepy agent. Leave the attire to me.”
Sprakie marched Philip toward Commercial Street. However, this was a short trek, because the Flaxen One halted, planting his feet firmly — a bucking bronco couldn’t have done it better. He drifted back to Thomas.
“I can dress myself,” he said. “I’ve been doing it since I was this high. I’ll wear what I please.” This was as much for Thomas as it was for Sprakie. Thomas grimaced. “Are you sure you don’t mind me going to the Tea Dance?”
“No. And I do not want to dress you. I was just offering a suggestion.”
Philip gave Tee a kiss on the cheek. “I know.” He took Thomas’ hand. “We’ll go back to the hotel together.” He reached out for Sprakie. “The three of us. We’ll be a mixed bag of nuts for the tourists.”
Sprakie rolled his eyes, but appeared to come to terms with the conditions. Desperation.
3
The stroll of these three did turn heads. Actually, Sprakie turned the heads, but Philip’s good looks commanded their share of attention. Thomas beamed like the proud master of two fine leopards, as that would have been the assumption in this town. As they promenaded past the restaurants, Philip kept an eye on the lobster bake specials for the evening. Thomas had trained him to find the best price. It was like shopping for gas — pennies buying the difference. Sprakie also window-shopped — jewelry, leather gear, sunglasses (he had some collection) and men.
They stopped at the Monster shop (obligatory), not only for its unabashed collection of porn magazines and DVDs, but to gawk at the building’s garish outside. It had more graffiti than a tattooed lady in a sideshow. From its gables showered a collection of gallows folk, each distorted in death throes. Dungeon paraphernalia, swastikas and a spray paint of ghoulies blanketed the walls. It didn’t blend well with the neighboring shops, a suite of prim New England Victorians that sold artwork and Native American Silver.
Philip scanned the façade. He wasn’t into leather or S&M and felt that the graffiti was the Sistine Chapel for such temperaments. He stared at a witch painted apple green, with a swollen belly and only two teeth — one each, upper and lower. The customary broomstick was shoved between her legs, or perhaps up her ass,
if one had a notion. He found it repulsive. It was odd that he should be in this outdoor gallery of gargoyle frescos after witnessing the most serene sight of his life. It heightened both in his sensibility.
“Exquisite,” Sprakie said.
“She’s awful looking,” Philip responded. Then he noticed that Sprakie gazed up at the gallows collection.
“See how they swing,” Sprakie mused. “I find these paintings exquisite. It captures the moment.”
“A nightmare,” Thomas said.
“I would think you would appreciate the irony of the thing,” Sprakie said. “They are being punished, and unlike other punishments, their rotten lives are being squeezed out by inches.” His eyes opened wide. “The weight of their life is killing them. Isn’t that imaginative, Mr. Dye? Just the thing you would expect to read in a good mystery novel. Eh? Not a nightmare.”
Thomas grinned. “No. A nightmare. The fellow who owns this place, and by the way, painted all this shit, had a nightmare. He decided to share it with the world.”
“Some things are best left under the pillow,” Philip said. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Pity,” Sprakie said. “In all P’Town, this is my favorite spot.”
Philip pulled Sprakie away from the door and down the short flight of stairs. “I thought we were headed for The Boatslip?”
“Another favorite spot,” Thomas said.
“I should say,” Sprakie said, glancing to the gables.
“I prefer the Barbie House.” Thomas referred to the Cape Cod down at the East End that had nothing less than a hundred Barbie and Ken dolls landscaped into its garden — sunbathing Barbie; water skiing Ken; a Barbie-que; a disco beach party. A Barbie and Ken volleyball game. Barbie at sea. Ken to the rescue. “Now, that is imagination.”
“You would fancy such things, professor,” Sprakie said. “And they call me queenie.”
They continued their slow progression toward The Pink Swallow, past The Atlantic House, The Crown and Anchor and The Spiritus, a pizza parlor that became an infamous meat market after midnight. The White Swan, now sans old queens, was in the distance as they approached the hotel.
“Jesus Marie,” Sprakie said.
Florian Townsend stood sentinel on The Pink Swallow’s porch. His sneer was as effective as any lighthouse.
“I wish you two could get along,” Thomas said.
Sprakie shivered. “He’s like something from the Munsters.”
“But I thought you liked that sort of thing,” Thomas said. “All that gallows graffiti, I mean.”
Sprakie turned, his hands on his hips. “Those were portraits of the living at the point of death. They’ll be suspended between the worlds forever. Mr. Creepyman has already made it to the morgue and walks among us.” He imitated a zombie’s walk.
“Stop it, Sprakie,” Philip said. He still laughed. Flo was an acquired taste — like cod liver oil, nasty with every spoonful. Still, Philip tried his best to keep the peace. He knew that Flo disapproved of him and never neglected an opportunity to whisper anti-Philip comments in Thomas’ ear, even when that whisper was a gravelly roar that Philip was meant to hear. Still, for Tee’s sake, Philip kept the peace. Sprakie should try also.
Flo descended. “I have some papers, Tee.”
“You always have some papers,” Thomas said. “I am on vacation.”
“Looks that way,” Flo said.
“Well, you shall be glad to know that I will work for the next few hours.” Thomas clasped his hands together. “I was inspired by the sea air and, would you believe it, the whales showed up — two of them. I swear, my prayers were answered. I wanted Philip to get the full treatment, and two showed up. A ballet in the waves.” He grasped Philip’s shoulder, pulling him unto his breast.
“Like noiseless nautilus shells, their light prows sped through the sea; but only slowly they neared the foe. As they neared him, the ocean grew still more smooth; seemed drawing a carpet over its waves; seemed a noon-meadow, so serenely it spread. At length the breathless hunter came so nigh his seemingly unsuspecting prey, that his entire dazzling hump was distinctly visible, sliding along the sea as if an isolated thing, and continually set in a revolving ring of finest, fleecy, greenish foam.”
“Jesus, Marie. You’re an actor waiting for the next stage cue, aren’t you?”
Thomas laughed, releasing Philip. “That I am, and more. Only I do not need a cue.”
The four men paused — a long pause, each contemplating their own sphere and its intersection. Then, from the tall grass along the fence, a gray tail waved a warning. Into the center of this quartet jumped a solo act — a fat, puffy Maine Coon.
“Jesus, Marie. What the fuck is that?”
Thomas roared. “Come Flo. Show me the mail.”
He followed Flo up the porch, laughing the entire way. Philip stared at the Maine Coon’s wake as it scurried across the street into The White Swan’s hedges. Philip would wear something fetching to the Tea Dance — not Izod, but fashionable. He gazed at Sprakie’s thong and chuckled. There was a time that such a thing would be the ticket — the choice of smart hustlers. However, he didn’t need to hustle anymore, owner as he was of a first edition and kept in the fussy charge of a man of erudition. Thong. Izod. He was dressing himself since he was this high. He’d manage to do it again.
“I won’t be long,” he said to Sprakie.
“I don’t want to see you come back in a button down sweater and a beanie hat.”
Philip chuckled. As he gained the top step, something lumbered across the threshold.
“Old Charlotte.” He hunkered down and kissed the great beast’s head. “Do you want to come to the Tea Dance? Naked as you are, you’re better dressed than . . . I am. Or him.” He pointed to Sprakie.
“Don’t be long. I don’t want to get dregs at the bottom of the Margarita pitcher or the last jack-off under the boardwalk.”
Philip smiled. “Bite him,” he said. “He’s a bad, bad man.”
Chapter Three
Green Shorts
1
The Boatslip rocked — from its inner dance floor to its wide, expansive deck. Every hoohoo who wanted to be seen or to gawk, strutted at the Tea Dance under the Provincetown sun. The liquor flowed as much as the tide that lashed over jetties and swept to the boardwalk. All the fashion statements were made — a hundred times a hundred. The thumpa-thumpa rhythms shook the planking and vibrated the air, the gulls hovering in wait for a discarded hot dog or an abandoned plate of chips. Through the wild siren of music, the beautiful people played their games — the cruise and the strut, the camp and the flame. Chests were bared and accented with kerchiefs. Waists were wrapped in tee shirts. Shorts, colorful and skimpy — knees bronzed, legs supple, and mouths dripping with the latest gossip and vodka concoctions.
Philip raised his sunglasses as he scanned the sun baking The Boatslip’s gray green roof — a modern addition, unlike the Victorian gables and mansard roofs typical to the Cape. He spied loungers by the pool and the clotted clusters of flesh taking their ease on The Boatslip’s rail. The breeze, scant now in the late afternoon arena, abandoned the grasses and the Maine Coon’s tail.
Philip grinned. There was the aroma of men here — men courting men, a cotillion of debutantes flaunting their studied courtesies, the rules of attraction — mating. Philip knew it well. Look out to space and glance only quickly. Never stir too much interest until the right one appears — the one who you want for dessert. However, Philip wasn’t shopping. Despite this, his well-learned lessons had become instinctive by now. His eyes darted back under the protection of the sunglasses, and he scanned the line-up — the bare chests and wiggling asses as if he had any interest in them beyond his anchorage to Tee.
Sprakie jabbered and twisted. He wiggled and waggled, and even flung his hands toward the sky with the occasional Jesus Marie, an act that brought sure attention and scared the gulls.
“There’s one for you,” he said to Philip. He latch ont
o Philip’s arm, tugging him in the direction of a beefy man in spandex — a man who must have lived in the gym for such moments as Tea Dances. “He’s as hard as a totem pole and don’t you think he doesn’t know it, the sassy bitch.”
Philip slid his glasses down and took a direct look. “You know what they say,” he commented. “Big pecs — little pecker.”
“Don’t gawk. Put your glasses back on. Jesus Marie, didn’t I teach you nothing.”
Philip took the sunglasses off. “I’m not really interested.”
Sprakie frowned. “You’re no fun anymore. Where’s the spry boy I found on my doorstep, dripping wet and full of sass?”
“He’s still here,” Philip said. “He’s just a bit more focused.”
“Hell, he is.” Sprakie pulled Philip away from the railing. “Now walk with me. Let’s go in and find us a dance partner. That should rekindle your interest. You need to be less focused on the old farts. You always liked a young buck in heat. There’s enough heat here to fire the furnaces of hell.”
Philip halted. “I’m just fine. I’m looking and like what I see. I’m not dead, you know.”
“Could have fooled me. You’re just thinking that Mr. Dye would regard any physical contact with any of these specimens as a complete disregard for this silly romantic notion you have that you need a father figure in your life.”
Philip’s eyes flared. “That’s cruel, you know.”
“Well, he’s old enough to be your father.”
“It always comes back to that, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t get me wrong. If he’s loaded, and it appears that he is, I approve of sucking his bank account dry, but as you constantly tell me, you’re not living off the fat of the land.”
Sprakie was fishing again, and Philip knew it. Once a week an inquiry was made seeking the source of Philip’s income. If you had the jack, why did you wind up on my doorstep; and your lottery was won very convenient to your hooking up with Mr. Dye. Philip would gladly tell Sprakie about the first edition, but Sprakie pressured him in a manner that Philip needed to defy. And now, and not for the first time, Sprakie was accusing him of some Freudian venture in search for a new father. Philip had one father and didn’t need another one, thank you very much. Philip snapped the glasses back on.
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