“Ayeh. Mebbe a year from now we’ll be in Califonayeah,” Peter Cabot said.
Philip was thankful that Peter Cabot didn’t gaze toward the Golden State and say: God! Purty! Then, something happened, between the Intermission and Abbie’s having Eben’s baby, she having told Ephraim that it was his. It was upon his first entrance in Act Two that Lars Hamilton . . . forgot his lines.
“Thunder ‘n’ lightenin’, Abbie,” he said. “I hain’t slept this late in fifty year.”
Then his mouth opened like a carp swallowing swamp water. Lars gazed up and then out. Philip supposed another actor could have saved him. He had heard that’s what was generally done in these instances, but the only other person on the stage was Abbie, and she peered at Lars like a broomstick.
“Um. Fifty year . . . I say. Hain’t slept — thunder ‘n’ lightnin’.”
Philip heard whispering, and then Lars came back to life. He looked out toward the audience. “Look’s like the sun full riz a’most. Must’ve been the dancin’ and likker.”
There was a collective sigh from the audience and Lars, that is Ephraim Cabot, continued his ramble, even to the cradle to look at his infant son and deliver a Purty’s a picter line. Philip however sensed a change in the actor. He wasn’t acting anymore. His remorse was real. Well, wasn’t that acting? However, there was a difference.
This whole play was annoying Philip. He wanted a young hero and instead he was watching Eben Cabot, the biggest prick on this man’s earth, who knocked up his father’s wife and moon-cowed for two acts. Then, when Abbie kills the baby, a particularly O’Neill touch, which disturbed Philip, this young buck doesn’t even come to Abbie’s aid. No. Does he take her in his arms and run off to Californayeah? No. He spouts off about how the world is a bucket of shit and turns the lady over to the sheriff for proper New England justice. A witch trial came to Philip’s mind.
When Abbie answers her cad lover’s I love ye, Abbie, with a rootin’, tootin’ A-yeh and is taken away, Eben looks toward the audience and says: Sun’s a-rizen. Purty, hain’t it? Philip closed his eyes and was thankful it was over. The audience burst into resounding applause, Thomas the loudest of them all. Philip tried his best to touch fingers to fingers.
“Brilliant,” Tee said. “Perfect, was it not?”
“I have nothing to compare it to,” Philip said. “I mean, this is my first O’Neill experience.”
“I think this is your first theater experience.”
Philip shrugged. “So?”
“Do you remember? I said I wanted to be with you when you first experienced a play.”
Philip did remember that. He wished the play was Young Frankenstein or Hairspray, but he didn’t have the gall to spoil Tee’s romantic notion.
“Yes, Tee. I remember. This was fine, although it was a gloomy play.”
“O’Neill. If you want comedy, you see Neil Simon.”
Where? Philip thought.
The actors were taking their bows. Lars Hamilton was acclaimed the most. However, Philip thought that the towering actor in his deep bows and broad grin was acting now more than when he spouted Ephraim. Lars’ smile was forced. Perhaps the blown line constituted imperfection in the actor’s mind, despite Thomas’ assessment.
“He had trouble,” Philip noted.
“Happens all the time.” Tee lowered his voice. “Lars sometimes drops a whole scene — starts acting a different act or even . . . a different play. He shall recover. We should pop backstage and egg him on. Cabot is a difficult role. He really did quite well.”
Philip kept silent. This was a part of Tee’s world that passed him by, like a comet rounding the sun. Philip had come to love the sound of words and the images they conjured, but Desire Under the Elms was a parable that cut him too deeply. He thought of the young Abbie abandoning the old Ephraim, and for what — a roll in the hay and a false promise.
“Shall we?” Thomas said, standing.
Philip rolled up his Playbill, and then followed the clamoring mob out into the darkness.
2
“Mr. Hamilton isn’t seeing anyone,” said a husky woman, who had been one of the visiting neighbors in the dancin’ and likker scene. “I’ll send your regards in, if you want.”
Thomas appeared crestfallen. “Sorry to hear that. Has he taken ill?”
“No,” the woman said. “He’s just needing a rest. Long play, that one. Longer still if you just sit around for the whole thing waiting for your one minute in the lights. Too many like that.”
Philip and Thomas were standing in a crowded hallway that chained a suite of small cubbies together, each curtained for privacy. The woman was waiting her turn before a community stall.
“Well,” Thomas said. “Tell Lars that his friend Thomas . . . Thomas Dye and Philip . . .”
The curtain slid open, Lars Hamilton’s forlorn face emerging into the hallway. “Thomas,” he croaked. “Do come in. Madeleine. I’ll see no one else. Old friends. Old friends.”
Lars pulled Thomas and Philip into the dressing room. It was cramped, smelt of flowery perfume and was hotter than hell. A portable wardrobe hung Lars’ street clothes and nothing more. He still wore his Ephraim garb, but his makeup was partially smeared. Philip saw Lars now as a mad man. Halloween ball.
“Did you enjoy the play?” Lars asked.
“Immensely,” Thomas said. He gazed at Philip for comment.
“What can I say?” Philip gushed. “O’Neill is O’Neill.”
Thomas gave him the fish eye. However, Lars didn’t seem to give the reviews a second thought.
“I had trouble tonight.”
“One line,” Thomas said. “What is one line?”
Lars turned on his company — insanely. With the dressing mirror bulbs dancing in a halo around his head, Lars Hamilton appeared satanic.
“I am a jinx, Dye. A veritable jinx. I saw him tonight.”
“You saw who?”
“The Gold boy. He was on stage.”
Philip trembled. While Thomas perused the dressing table for perhaps a liquor bottle, Philip stared into Lars’ eyes. He didn’t doubt the man, because he had seen Max Gold also.
“I had cast him as Eben, you know. He was to be Eben, but he . . .” Lars brought his hands across his face. “This is the third one, Dye. The third one.”
“What are talking about?” Philip asked. He pushed Thomas aside and grabbed Lars’ hands, pushing them down into his lap. “What do you mean, the third one?”
“I cast a young man named Gordon . . . Gordon Waters — a real attractive man, who had a golden voice and golden hair. I cast him as Joe in All God’s Children Got Wings. He was perfect for the role, that Gordon Waters.”
Gordon Waters? Philip knew that name — vaguely. Had there been a Gordon Waters at manluv. Or had he seen him on a marquee on Broadway, or in the porn queue?
“What about Gordon Waters?”
Thomas muttered something that Philip didn’t hear, but before he could prompt him, Lars began to weep.
“He was a live wire. I took him dancing at The Monster. I seemed to have blacked out at some point in the evening. All that noise and thrumming. It always gets to me. I might have been drinking. Maybe, too much. I do tend to drink heavy. It’s the art, you know. Well, Gordon . . . well, he was found the next morning in a dumpster behind the club. He had been shot, cut to ribbons and stuffed into a plastic bag.”
“Shit,” Philip said. “But what had that to do with you?” Then, he made the connection. “Oh, I see.”
“But Lars,” Thomas said, “the night Max Gold died, you were passed-out at the bar. Florian saw you. You don’t think that your lapse of consciousness constitutes anything more than coincidence.”
Lars gnashed his teeth. “I didn’t kill them. The angel of death took them, but I marked them. I was with them just before they were taken. I’m a jinx.”
Philip patted Lars’ shoulder. “Coincidence, Mr. Hamilton.”
“Not so. Allow me my clarity. Twi
ce is a coincidence. Three times is fate.”
“We should leave you be,” Thomas said.
“Wait, Tee. Will he be all right?”
“Three times is fate,” Lars moaned.
“He will find a bottle and sleep in the corner,” Thomas said. He ushered Philip through the curtain.
“Gordon,” Lars moaned. “Max, and poor Jemmy.”
“Jemmy?” Philip returned, Thomas on his heels. “Did you say, Jemmy? Were you with Jemmy the night he was . . .”
“Three times is fate,” Lars said. He closed his eyes.
“Come away, Philip. These memories are painful.”
Philip frowned. Painful? To whom? He suddenly had a question or two for Thomas, but Tee departed through the curtain. Philip pondered the dirty curtain sheet for a full moment before he shuffled through it, but not before hearing one last Three times is fate. He tried to decide between coincidence and fate. He thought of Max Gold and his tuna fish sandwich. He thought of the apparition on the stage. He pictured Jemmy in his mind — that troubled soul, who mainlined and went with anyone who offered him a fix. Philip also wondered where he had heard the name Gordon Waters before. It was confusing and combustible.
“Coming?”
Thomas was at the end of the hall, the bustle having subsided.
Coming? Philip wondered.
Chapter Seven
The Gauntlet
1
Philip tagged behind Thomas silently. He wanted Tee to stop and wait for him. Philip had some questions and stoked the flames to ask them. First in queue was why Tee and all his acquaintances seemed to know the manluv crew, yet categorically denied surfing such sites routinely. It was all happenstance. However, Philip was doubting coincidence. Three times is fate sounded just right to him. The sight of Lars Hamilton — disheveled and crazed, reminiscing on the lost boys and how he was their jinx, caused Philip to consider the current actor who spilled Purty across the boards as Eben Cabot. To think, Philip even auditioned for the part, unwittingly, at the party. What irked Philip most now was Thomas’ reaction to Lars’ lamentation. Callous. Dismissive. Next subject, please. Philip knew that Tee had an interest in Jemmy. He remembered the clipping on the desk in his office. Perhaps Sprakie was right. Perhaps Thomas was a mid-life crisis hopping from twink to twink.
Philip halted expecting Thomas to turn and backtrack, but he didn’t backtrack. He kept on walking as if he had an appointment in the darkness. Uncharacteristic. Philip began to run after him, but stopped.
“Tee,” he called.
“Don’t be too late,” came Thomas’ voice from the shadowy path.
They had been strolling down the hill toward Commercial Street. The cottages, B&B’s and year-rounds were quiet and scarcely lit. The hosts of lesbian-fostered cats were pawing the margins for the last bits in tins. The night wind rustled the grasses. Philip could hear the hum of night activity in the cottages — T.V. echoes, companionable laughter and an occasional grunt. By the time he took an accounting of his desolate surroundings, Thomas had descended the hill. He was a mere shadow nearing The Pink Swallow. Philip, abandoned, at first, fretted and then he began to mumble to himself — a soliloquy unnatural and unexpected.
“What the fuck’s with him?” Philip mused as he shuffled down the hill. He kept as much an eye on the cats as they did on him. “Something stirred up his shit. Something, and I bet it was thoughts of Jemmy. I bet. Well, if he thinks I’m just going to walk behind him like a Japanese woman and creep up the stairs to bed, he’s got another thing coming.”
But Tee had said, Don’t be late. Why would he say that?
“He wants to be alone.”
Philip marched down the hill to Commercial Street. Evening consumed the East End, but Philip knew that after midnight, the world was either in bed and frolicking or out shopping for a mattress mate. There was only one place at this hour to do that — the gauntlet at The Spiritus.
2
The Spiritus was an after-hours Provincetown tradition. Pizza and sex. The Pizza was famous, the cheese thick, the sauce hot and the pepperoni spicy. The daily pie trade was brisk, the line out the door. However, at midnight, the slices dwindled as the patrons arrayed the stoops and bistros. They spilled east and west of the doorway, and across the street, in clusters, bunched together like herds for the busting. By midnight, Commercial Street was lined with men on the make — posturing to snag or be snagged. No vehicle dared obstruct this ritual, the pavement cleared as a runway for the most available mates for the evening. Many a hussy paraded these three blocks to the sound of wolf calls and whistles. Many a nervous newbie was dressed to kill by his friends and set off for the flight through the bulrushes to be snapped from the cradle and presented to some Pharaoh’s daughter. Many desperate fools trickled through this midnight meat market praying (if the devil heard prayers) that someone was as desperate as they were. The gauntlet at The Spiritus was night’s last stand — the terminal for the gregarious and the lonely. For many, it would be a noisy memory. For others, it meant a one-night stand and loneliness’ triumph. For Philip Flaxen, it was a combination of curiosity and spite. He resolved not to sleep alone tonight, for even with Thomas beside him, he thought the bed would be empty.
Philip hovered at the edge of the crowd. He was pulled into a twittering conversation with a group of ten youngsters, all underage and drunk. All daring each other to take up the path and walk the gauntlet. Philip thought to steer one of these hotties away and forgo the task of parading through the mob. However, these kids were nothing to him. He drifted further toward the gap. He noticed the wall of flesh thickening within a block. College men, boisterous and snapping each other with towels. Pretty men. They made him think of an engineering major. He smiled.
Let’s do this, he thought as if this was an initiation ceremony. He needed no such thing. He could teach half these dudes tricks that they could only imagine. Still, he felt cleansed as he took to the street. As if all the Izod shirts and sophisticated cologne had clogged his pores. The smell of men, the taste of them in the night air — air that blended pepperoni and crust, washed away Philip’s unnatural layers, baring his soul to a darker, but truer self.
Philip unbuttoned his shirt allowing his silken chest and pink nipples full vent. He mounted his most seductive smile. He walked slowly, one hand in his pocket, the other on his chin. He knew the pose. He knew it was irresistible. The money shot — the one that got the tip jar filled on manluv. He felt the eyes on him, heads turning and a murmuring from both sides of the gauntlet. He heard familiar calls. Hey, bubble-butt. Over here, sweetie. You there — I’ve got something for you. Philip smiled and winked, but didn’t stop. He saw he had reached the rough trade — the leather set, salivating over handlebar mustaches and mountain men beards. Not his type, but he knew that he had to be an equal opportunity flirt to survive in this world. Sprakie had taught him that much. He saw some motion in that scabby crowd. He knew that if he stopped now they would have him in a harness for a gangbang and, although he was seeking new experiences, that one was not on the list. He hastened toward the end of the line. There he saw the usual posers — men who had walked the gauntlet and joined the sidelines waiting for the trade to move on down.
Philip headed to the sidewalk. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of a shiny star — someone that far outshone him. No wonder. It was Sprakie.
“Little Ishie,” Sprakie said. “Glad you’re taking in the night air. Where’s your squeeze?” He looked behind Philip. “Is he coming along, or did those big bad biker boys steal him away?”
“Stop it,” Philip said. “He was tired and went to bed.”
“And you weren’t in the mood? Duh. Excuse me. If you weren’t, would you be here? And I’m proud of you. I watched your progress and it flatters me in your education.”
Philip started to the sidelines, but Sprakie grabbed his arm, a bit too forcefully for Philip’s tastes.
“What’s wrong?” Philip asked.
“Oh, nothing. Trad
ition is that when walking the gauntlet, it’s a round trip. Let me escort you back.”
Philip pushed Sprakie’s hand away. “I’m fine on my own.”
“Are you? I think not.” Sprakie’s brows raised catching Philip’s attention. “I have stumbled upon some very interesting things, I have. Well, not stumbled, but shown. That Mr. Townsend fellow may be as ugly as a monkey’s ass, but he has shown me a most interesting evening.”
“You didn’t . . .”
“Please. Even I have standards. But I think that everyone should have standards. Even you.”
“What are saying?”
“Nothing yet. Come. Let’s walk the gauntlet back and I’ll enlighten you.”
Sprakie commandeered Philip’s arm again, but this time in a gentler manner. He moved Philip back toward the rough trade. Philip ceased to see the gawkers. He listened to his long time friend, who whispered many things. The tones were soft, but real. They were rehearsed and verifiable. Philip’s sassy mood turned dour — sad and deflated. He abruptly halted in front of The Crown and Anchor, halfway into the gauntlet.
The world spun. He had heard Sprakie’s words and they fit so perfectly to his previous mood and inquisition that he wished he had never come down this street. He would have preferred a silent dark evening alone with Tee, happy and in denial. Sprakie tugged at his arm, but Philip refused to budge.
“Leave me alone,” he said.
“Here in the middle of the street? You don’t need these trolls. You need me. Come back to the hotel. Stay the night with me. It’ll be like old times. And everything can be sorted out in the morning.”
Philip stared at Sprakie. This man was always his savior, but now he seemed too anxious to both sting and soothe. It was too damn pat. For the first time in his life, Philip hated Sprakie. The tattle he told may have been the truth, but it was served raw and with too much delight. Then another hand touched him. He had stayed too long mid street. The shoppers were sampling his wares. Philip rounded on the hand prepared to bark and even bite, when he saw another familiar face.
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