Turning Idolater

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Yes, as I say, I’m a man of independent wealth.”

  “If you had the jack, why . . .”

  “Robert.” Sprakie winced. “I didn’t have the jack when I showed up at your door. I acquired it in a way that was a mystery even to me, but Tee showed me the light, and now I can choose my own course.”

  “Can you?” Sprakie sneered. “You’re much the same when it comes to that. You’re as naïve as they come. Whether you found a lucky bag of marbles or the pot at the end of the rainbow, there’s no future between you two.”

  Philip blew an angry puff and turned toward the sea. His fingers crabbed. His chest heaved. “We’re friends, but you’re pushing it.”

  Sprakie grabbed his shoulders. “We are friends. You’re supposed to listen to friends. Especially when friends see things that you’re too blinded by puppy love to see.”

  “It’s not puppy love.”

  “Well, whatever it is, there’s something going on here that doesn’t meet the eye. If you’re too bullheaded to recognize that, then you need me more than ever to point things out.”

  Philip pouted. He wasn’t naïve. There were things he didn’t understand. Florian Townsend made sure that Philip was kept uncomfortable in the undertow, the deep currents that ran below the several connections that could not be coincidental. However, Philip felt he could steer himself around such shoal water. He turned to allay Sprakie’s fears with something like No relationship is perfect, or some other handy device, when his eyes caught something that did attract him. He slipped the glasses down again. Sprakie followed the glance.

  “What? What do you see, or rather who?”

  Philip saw a young man with rather pale skin and scant musculature arching his back against the building. He had a red bandana around his neck and wore green shorts — neon green shorts — surely a lighthouse for the searching.

  “He’s a scrawny bitch,” Sprakie commented.

  Philip didn’t answer. He left the railing and the sun, heading into the shadow of The Boatslip’s roof.

  2

  The guy in green shorts was relaxed and didn’t seem to be playing any of the Tea Dance games, although to wear such neon markers at such an event was a clear signal that he was available. However, Sprakie was correct. The man was scrawny, in need of a two-day pass at Gold’s Gym and a few hours under the sun lamps — not great competition for the muscular hunks that strutted their wares beneath the hovering gulls.

  Philip, however, was not in the market for anyone’s cast-off. He was attracted by more than a pair of neon green shorts. He approached the young man, who notice this approach and scooted away, but not before giving Philip the regulated side-glance and the beckoning back-glance at twenty paces. It was a different kind of dance than the one inside The Boatslip — prelude to a score that any denizen of Provincetown, New York, San Francisco or the Vatican could relate to the uninitiated. However, Philip was not bait on this line. He broke the rule.

  “Hey,” he called. “Don’t I know you?”

  The green short’s guy stopped in his tracks. He turned about, and then sallied forth toward Philip. “Don’t you have a better line than . . .” His mouth twitched. “Hell, I think I do know you. But . . .”

  “Quantum Physics,” Philip said.

  “Yes. Hell, that was some time ago. I mean, I’m still in school, but . . . Hey, you were on the subway. I gave you my number.” Then the man frowned. “You never called.”

  “Sorry. I got tied up that night.”

  “So you’re into that, are you?”

  Philip laughed. “No. Not that. I had . . .”

  “A better offer. Well, I’m Dennis. How are you set now?”

  “Philip. I’m in a relationship.”

  Dennis nodded. “Well, nice to have met you again, Philip.” He turned.

  “No, wait.”

  Dennis did so, his deep eyes catching Philip’s interest, and Philip was interested . . . in something, but he didn’t know what. Perhaps he could ask Tee whether he could stray a little. Isn’t that a silly notion — not the straying, but the asking. Maybe Tee would be up for something different. That’s just what Philip needed — another piece of meat in this relationship. Weren’t Sprakie and Flo enough? Still.

  “Yes?” Dennis said.

  “Nothing. I mean, I’m in a relationship, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have friends. I mean I’m here with a friend.” He nodded toward Sprakie, who was chatting up a tall, swimmer-type who wore almost as much as Sprakie did.

  “You’re with the screamer? Is that your . . .”

  “No. He’s back at the hotel — We’re at The Pink Swallow.”

  Dennis leaned on the wall, relaxing again. “We’re at The Crown and Anchor.”

  “We.”

  “A bunch of randy friends. Mostly the school crowd. They’re scattered in the crowd . . . fishing.” He chuckled. “So why is your partner inside on a glorious day like this?”

  “He’s a writer. Working. We were out already today.”

  “Once a day?”

  “No. We went whale watching.”

  Now, Philip was man watching, although he would deny it. He felt the spin of flesh before him, the same feeling he had when he had first spied this young engineering student on the subway in the dim days of manluv. He wanted to be strong, and he would be. He was only talking — small talk. The talk of courtship. Philip noticed that Sprakie occasionally glanced at him. He thought that Robert would be pleased by this departure from the solitary stance, but Sprakie didn’t appear pleased. With every glance was something not far short of venom.

  “Whale watching? Did you see any?”

  “Two. Big ones. Wonderful . . . would you like a drink?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, because I feel like one and they won’t serve me.”

  Dennis laughed. “What would you like?”

  “A beer. I have simple tastes.”

  “I like that. So do I?”

  “I bet — quantum physics.”

  Dennis caught the thumpa-thumpa rhythm. “I’ll give you quantum physics. Do you dance?”

  Philip smiled. He touched Dennis’ hand. It clasped like Velcro. In the near distance the gulls cawed and Sprakie frowned. In the far distance, the Maine Coon stretched and another pair of eyes watched — eyes happy to catch Philip’s obvious straying to this guy in green shorts. Envious eyes. Agent’s eyes.

  Chapter Four

  Mr. Townsend Goes to Town

  1

  Florian Townsend didn’t mean to spy on Philip. At least, that’s what he told himself. However, when Thomas drifted into the author’s zone, pounding on the keyboard, Flo’s small talk only managed to annoy him. So Florian abandoned the confines of the room for his own, smaller, stuffier cabana. All the rooms were tiny spaces, deceptively so, because The Pink Swallow’s exterior appeared expansive, tokening interior suites with sunbathed rooms and airy sea breezes. No suites. No airy spaces or breezes. The walls were ribbed, thick with several seasons of battleship gray paint, and sturdy against the brine. A dresser and stick chair and a single bed, with a thin mattress, completed the elements. A toilet in a closet was a luxury, as most guests used the communal drains and showerheads. Mr. Townsend had a private throne, although when he used it, he had scarcely room enough to reach the paper roll and wipe, his knees crunched to the wall, his elbows clenched close for balance. Tee and Philip had better accommodations — a double bed, a writing desk, an electrical outlet and a narrow balcony overlooking the sea. Flo’s room, like Sprakie’s on the floor above, faced Commercial Street. A flat expanse of gravel poured on the porch’s roof served as a sundeck, although Flo rarely used it.

  Mr. Townsend left Tee’s room for this closet space, perhaps to nap like an old dog in the quiet of his kennel. However, before he could shut his eyes, the yahoo Cowboys, who had the room on the right, decided that this was a good time for a buckaroo holiday — yippee ki yay. Whatever rodeo event they unfurled included plenty of lass
o, calf tying and a round of bronco busting. The rickety mattress squeaked a loud hoedown, shaking the gray painted walls. If that weren’t enough, the Lesbians who had taken the room on his left, found this a great time to frolic on the balcony. They scraped the wooden porch chairs across the gravel and called to friends walking along Commercial Street with the gusto of a tenement in the Bronx. Flo quit any attempt at a nap, deciding to walk to the East End and watch the kiting.

  As Flo trundled toward the East End, Commercial Street narrowing by degrees, the infectious thumpa-thumpa of the Tea Dance buzzed through the street. Suddenly, he thought that a gin and tonic might hit the spot. He had already past The Boatslip, but it was an easy step back to the low, rambling hotel’s archway. The sun was too hot now, he reckoned; so to shade, a drink and a bit of flesh spotting. It sure beat kite watching, and certainly topped noisy Cowboys and Lesbians. He sauntered under the archway into the Hotel’s bar, plowed his way through the rabble for a drink and then slipped out the side door toward the pool. He meant to find an umbrella and a soft seat. Instead, he found Sprakie — arms akimbo, Jesus Marie-ing in fine fashion. Just what was needed — Not. However, Philip was there also, relaxing on the rail. So Florian slipped to the fencing and tried to remain unnoticed. He generally didn’t need to try. His overall appearance, especially now in clam diggers and a boater shirt, didn’t recommend him to the trawling. That’s when he found the spying (he wouldn’t have called it that) became interesting.

  Philip was cruising. He was trying to pick-up a most uninteresting creature in very interesting neon green shorts. Florian kept one eye on Sprakie, his lips on the drink and the other eye on Philip’s progress. He witnessed Philip make the first move and touch the green-shorts guy’s hand. Then, they were off. So was Florian.

  Flo moved quickly at first, past the array of non-swimming swimmers, careful not to draw attention from Sprakie. Sprakie seemed to be watching Philip too. Odd? Then, Philip turned, his head cocked toward the pool. Flo turned away. He raised his hand to his face as if that could hide his lanky limbs and sallow skin. However, after a shuffle toward the pool, he peeked to see if he had blown his cover. Philip was gone.

  Dancing, Flo thought, and scurried out of the pool area, returning to the shadows of the bar. The place was jammed, but he managed to slip through, not without some pushing and dirty looks from the patrons. He had lost his drink somewhere. Perhaps he had left it by the pool. He didn’t care now. He tripped over the threshold onto the dance floor. To spot anyone in this bull pit generally would be impossible. There was flesh gyrating from boardwalk to the DJ booth. Couples danced, and trios, and the occasional pas de quatre, however, the tangle of motion would make it difficult to pinpoint an individual, if it were not for . . . the green shorts. They shouted across the dance floor. Flo grinned.

  Philip was in grand form, his shoulders screwing left and right, while his hips swayed, bumping the green clad lad’s ass with every other Thumpa-thumpa. The lad reciprocated, and soon their fingers entwined as Philip clutched the guy back to front. They entered the mock hump mode with flying colors, many couples flaring in a similar manner, some more intense than others. Florian measured Philip’s intensity as moderate, but somewhere in the mind bellows, there raised a more sinister breeze. Flo had seen enough.

  Suddenly, someone shoved him aside. It was too deliberate to be the press of the crowd. He turned on the offender.

  “You,” he said.

  “Yes, me.” Sprakie gazed at the dance floor. He winked. “So, creepy man, what are you waiting for? What are you going to do about it?”

  Flo grinned, and then departed.

  2

  A gull called to Thomas Dye through the curtains. Its screee broke through the writing zone, causing the author to raise his eyes. The gull hovered over the back balcony, as if waiting to be fed.

  “What’s with you?” Thomas asked. “You have something to say?”

  As he stood to address the bird’s warning, it flew seaward, leaving a white splat on the weather worn railing.

  “Nice,” Thomas said. He went to the toilet closet, snatched some tissue, daubing it in the commode. He gathered a sheet of letter paper from the desk, tucking it under his arm, and then emerged into the sun. The heat kissed his bare shoulders and warmed his chest beneath his cut-off tee shirt. He attacked the bird shit, careful not to spread it too much or to pollute his keyboard fingers. “Messy bird. Dirty bird.” He thought he heard a screee at some distance as if the creature cursed him back. It was an amusing thought that raised a smile.

  Thomas Dye stretched his arms skyward, the letter paper in one hand, and the tissue in the other. He tossed the tissue over the side, hoping that the wind would take it beyond the jetty, and then opened the paper. He smiled as he read:

  “For my Flaxen One

  I gently draw the blinds

  The sun playing on the bed where my lover still sleeps;

  The light fans his naked chest,

  His wondrous thighs,

  And I am lost to thinking.

  How have we come so far?

  Despite a world of hate and fear,

  We managed to share our kingdoms,

  With a good deal of struggle

  As kingdoms will fight for sovereignty to the end.

  Now, in the morning breeze,

  He turns his ass in the sunlight

  And no matter the struggle,

  No matter the siege,

  He has my heart and my kingdom’s soul,

  And I return to that ass in the sunlight.”

  Philip, he thought. What am I about here? How will this end? Somehow, he hoped it would never end, but the world always turned on bright beginnings and dark endings. His whole life, from failure to success, had been a series of fine dawns and cold sunsets. If a man lives long enough, he could see every candle lit go dark in the loam. He spied the gull, far off now, in flight to the East End and he wondered if it was anyone’s hope that such spirits should be caged. Philip, he thought. His heart swam to sea.

  “Taking a break?”

  It was Flo. Thomas hadn’t heard him enter, but it didn’t matter. Mr. Townsend was a light tread in his mind now, and even lighter in his heart. It was business.

  “All work and no play,” Thomas said still facing the sea. He knew Flo would manage to turn him around eventually. No haste here. No haste. Suddenly, the letter paper left his hand — seized. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking a peek at your progress. I’ve been waiting for something substantial on that damned Bright Darkness manuscript for six months. I’m entitled to see more than research notes and . . .” Flo starred at the poem, his eyebrows raising, his lips forming their natural sneer. “Why, what’s this?”

  “Personal,” Thomas said, trying to swipe the work back. “Not for you to read.”

  “Too late,” Flo grumbled. “Very pretty. Very pretty, indeed.”

  Thomas ripped the work from Flo’s hand, but the damage was done. The poem was digested and had already made it through the spleen.

  “Damn it, Flo. You cannot read everything I write. You are not entitled to my every thought.”

  Thomas abandoned the sunlight, slipping back to the desk.

  “I wish I knew what you’re thinking, Tee. I wish, because I would say this little project has gone too far.”

  Thomas slammed his fist on the desk, the legs of which wobbled. “You are full of shit, you know. I said I would write this damn thing. I went about it with my usual fervor. I cannot help it if the material has grown wild like the fucking weeds that infest your mind.”

  Flo was cool. He shrugged and appeared almost apologetic. “Don’t take me wrong, Tee. I’m all for progress. I believe in verity and slice-of-life. I was brought up on it, but I must say, you’re smitten.”

  “So what if I am? I am old enough to know my heart. You miss that quality in me, I know, but if you think you are going to draw me out into one of our full scale battles, you have the wrong man.”
r />   “You are certainly old enough, and I guess Philip is sufficiently young enough. It makes for a good play, but the curtain must come down some time.”

  Thomas clenched his fists. He sat on the bed starring at Flo with dagger eyes. He knew what was coming next, or at least, he thought he knew. Little did he know. “Lay it on me, Flo. Give me the May to December lecture. I have heard it before and am anxious to see if you can be more creative with it this time.”

  Flo cracked his knuckles. “Very well. I’m just disappointed that you’re wasting your valuable time on pretty verses for a hustler who’s playing you like an old cuckold in a Fletcher comedy.”

  “Fuck you,” Thomas bellowed.

  Flo moistened his lips, ready to suck away.

  “You’ll never guess where I’ve just been.” He paused for effect. “The Boatslip. The Tea Dance. And you’ll never guess who I saw there.”

  “I know he went to the Tea Dance, Flo. He went with Sprakie.”

  “But he wasn’t with Sprakie.”

  Thomas trembled. Somehow, as much as he found Sprakie abrasive, he still regarded him as a chaperone. “So you are saying what?”

  “He was with an attractive young dude, who wore the most fetching pair of green shorts I have ever seen.”

  “So what. You cannot go to a dance and live in a bubble.”

  “Oh, he wasn’t in a bubble. No. No bubble. He was prancing up a storm, crotch to ass in a grinder and having a great time.”

  Thomas sniffed. “He is supposed to have a great time.”

  “At his time of life, of course. Couldn’t agree with you more. But Tee, I would take it as a message — a signal of things to come.”