Louie asked me if I’d perform one last time closing night. For old times’ sake. And I agreed I would. I had the idea for Fred and me to do an act together where we take each other’s clothes off. Louie loved it. Am I cut out for this business or what?
We did this thing, coming on in leather jackets and doing our hair James Dean style. Kind of ‘50s gay look. Tight T-shirts. And then, like we’re cruising each other, meet and start taking each other’s clothes off. When I pull his leather belt off, nearly tearing his belt loops away, the crowd goes crazy. I got the DJ at Glam Slam to mix me a cover of “Strangers in the Night.” Very corny and very cool at the same time. Maybe I should become a director. No kidding. Very creative. Me.
So that was our closing act the last night. When the guys rushed up to stuff money in our knickers I noticed this cute Latino type, small, stuffed a note in with the bill folded into it. $20. Back in the dressing room we pulled out our money and I read the note. “We want to meet you. Roberto and Eduardo.” Lots of luck, guys. There were actually guys hanging around after the show but I’d never gotten a note before. “Let’s split,” I said to Fred. “Some Latino maniacs want a late date after the show.”
“Are they cute maniacs?” Fred wanted to know.
“Who invited you?” I said. “Well, how many of them are there? Did they look like they thought you could handle a gang-bang?” he asked.
“Two,” I told him. “And I don’t want to have to explain to them I don’t screw around.” I took a breath. “And you, for all your willful ways, don’t screw around either, so don’t give me that Miss Slut routine.”
“For a high school junior you have a very fast mouth, Hugo. Okay, we’re out of here.”
Easier said than done. There they were as we ran out the back door. Mutt and Jeff. The little Latino and a tall guy with him. Older. Kind of French looking, kind of devilish looking. A dark Keith Carradine but older? “Hi, I’m Eduardo,” says the short one. He was pretty cute and he spoke English just fine. “This is Roberto.” We nodded. Fred and I didn’t smile. And we didn’t speak. “We thought you might like to join us for a drink.”
“I can’t.” I said.
“Oh, sure you can. We thought you were very interesting. And since we’re in the film business, in a way, we want to get to know you better. Your friend is included of course.” This is the tall guy, Roberto. He leaned on the “friend” just enough so it was quite clear he thought we might be a couple. I wasn’t going to shatter his illusions.
“No, it’s not that. We’re not old enough to drink.”
“Oh, really,” the tiny one said. Fred, to his credit, didn’t bat an eye. He just stood there trying to look simple and young.
“Well, a Coke maybe?” Tiny Tot added.
“Sorry, we really aren’t supposed to mingle with the clientele,” Fred said. Genius.
“This really is a special kind of gay club,” the older guy interrupted. “You’re not afraid of us, are you?”
“It’s not that,” I told him. “It’s just that we’re both still in school and we have tests tomorrow and we’ve got to get home.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Tall Roberto said.
“Right. I meant Monday. We’ve both got a lot of studying to do.” I thought we were making it pretty clear that we were not interested.
“This is some town.” Tall Roberto turned away. “Schoolboys working in gay strip clubs. Even in Rio we don’t have that.”
“We really appreciate your interest. Maybe another time.” Fred was being polite. I grabbed him by the arm and we beat it around the corner and into the parking lot toward Fred’s car. As we were jumping in I looked back and they were standing at the corner of the building under the streetlight watching us. Pretty mysterious goings-on for them. Down in Rio they probably never ran into anyone who turned them down.
“Film business. I can imagine what kind of film business they’re into. Dirty Polaroids in motel bedrooms I’ll bet. With lots of close-ups,” Fred said, hunching over the wheel. He’s a terrible driver.
“You’ve seen their type before,” I said.
“Creepy. Older guy has the money, his little boyfriend goes out scouting for new flesh. Can this be love? At least they’ve got each other.”
As I got out of the car I said to Fred, “It’s over, Fred my friend. No more Bomber Club. A chapter in my life, over.”
“If it’s not good enough for you it’s not good enough for me,” Fred said, gunning the motor. Waking up Mom, I’m sure. “Besides I was really beginning to find drag a drag.”
“You and Louie,” I said. And I slammed the door just to make sure Mom knew I was home.
I crept into the house and all the cats came running. Their idea of morning and food was every time anybody came in the house. I slapped some cat food down for them in the kitchen. Hell, it was Saturday night. Why shouldn’t they have some fun? Tails up and noses down they quickly ignored me as they ate and I walked as quietly as I could up the stairs. I was beginning to feel like I didn’t care if I never went out again. Working in a club sure kills your interest in going to them.
armani
It’s summer in Miami Beach. It’s a different town in the summer. I like it better. The models are pretty much gone. The South Americans are pretty much gone. We’re just here by ourselves. The Miami Beachers.
Now I’m selling clothes at Armani Exchange. The manager, Bert, was pretty excited when I went in and asked for a job. “But you’re the model I see in the Versace ads,” he said. “Why do you want to work here?”
“Because modeling is dead in the summer and I live here.” I told him. “I don’t want to go to New York or Europe and go to all those casting calls and go-sees and all that stuff. I’m just planning to go to college and am getting some money together to do it.”
Well, of course they hired me. Bert thought it would look good in the store. He even made me assistant manager, which means I still sell jeans but I watch the store when he goes to lunch.
I even got Fred/Myrtle a part-time job here. Myrtle lost his job over in Miami making dental fixtures, or parts, or whatever you want to call it. He said that proved the city is getting younger all the time. Younger people don’t need so much dental repair work.
Myrtle is a very presentable young guy as a sales clerk. He doesn’t twirl and twitch around the store the way he does backstage. I often wonder about that sort of wrist-slap gesture gay guys make, and that settling into one hip that goes with it. Do you think it’s genetic? I mean, you never see women making those gestures. My theory, Doctor, is that there’s this kind of stewpot of human energy boiling away somewhere, and we’re just bubbles on the surface. We bubble up, pulling with us whatever mix there is of other people’s personalities from earlier lives when we pop after seventy years or so. Settle back down into the glop, and bits and pieces of us bubble up into other people.
And guys like Myrtle bubble up with bits of women from some other century, when they wore bustles or hoopskirts and carried fans and Myrtle keeps snapping somebody with that imaginary fan, and twitching that imaginary bustle.
I like to think that maybe that’s the punishment for being a beautiful woman in another life and having been cruel and thoughtless to people who loved you. You come back as a gay guy and really pay your dues.
And what about guys like Glenn Elliott and me? In the straight-looking, straight-acting category, as the little ads say. At least I like to think so. What’s our punishment for? Maybe we’re the people who were so obsessed with ourselves we never could really care about anyone else? Because I don’t really feel like a girl. I kind of want to feel in love with somebody I’d like to be like. Falling in love with myself, only older. And for Glenn Elliott, it’s falling in love with himself, only younger. Curious, isn’t it? I have the funny feeling I want to be part of him, so when he’s inside me it’s sort of like we’re one person and coming is like glue. For a few moments we are. Heavy. But I don’t know what he thinks. If he feels the same
way or not. I have to ask him.
It’s less mysterious and less frightening to make love with another guy. You know what he’s feeling. When you put his cock in your mouth, you know what it feels like, so you know whether he’s enjoying it or not. Somehow it’s much easier to know another guy. Anyway. I really haven’t had much trouble with guys coming into Armani who come on to me because they’ve seen me at the Club. Lots of people seem to know me from being in ads. Once in a while somebody says, “Didn’t I see you at the Bomber Club?” And I say, “I’m too young to go to the Bomber Club, and besides it’s closed.” Which is true. And they forget it.
ken and hugo lunch
It’s really not hard to sell clothes. You just have to know what’s in the store. One look at the person and you know what’s going to look good on them. Here in Miami Beach, of course, there are no normal bodies. Everybody is either overweight or so splendid their shoulders are five times wider than their waist. Women included. So many fatties. Poor things. Dreaming of love but unable to stay away from those nacho chips. As Macha said to her friend Nicole, “You’re very smart, Nicole. Unfortunately nobody wants to fuck brains.” Tough but true. It’s only the package that turns you on. I asked Macha once when we were at Gertrude’s having lunch and all the tables were full of rather ugly people staring deeply into each other’s eyes, “Is it possible to fall deeply in love with somebody who is not attractive?” She looked around the room and said, “Not for you and me, not for you and me.”
And as I’m standing there leaning against the counter waiting for either a fatty or a dreamboat to walk in, in walks dream-boat Ken. He’s looking good. I don’t know what’s happening with Macha and him. I haven’t talked to Macha seriously in a long time. We’ve kind of drifted apart, largely because I really don’t want to talk to her about Glenn Elliott and Mom and me. Quite a little pickle we’re in.
“Hi, Hugo,” Ken said. Shook my hand, very manly. He was looking very handsome in that kind of Patrick Swayze, what’s his name, that guy who lives with Goldie Hawn, Kurt Russell style. “I was wondering what you were doing for lunch?” What am I supposed to say? Ken, I think whatever you want to talk about is going to be very embarrassing for both of us and having lunch is a terrible idea? No, all I could do is smile and tell him I took a late lunch and I was on until the manager came back. “When’s that?” he asked, and as luck would have it the manager walks back in ten minutes early, and has no problem with me leaving right away. I introduce them. Ken Weitz. How do I remember that? Thank God. It would look pretty dumb to be going out for lunch with someone and you don’t even know his last name. Or more like you’re having lunch with someone who just walked into the store off the street and picked you up. Very cool.
We went to the News Cafe. I looked okay. Working at Armani you have to dress a little. At least I didn’t looked wrecked. The News Cafe people think I’m some kind of minor celebrity because of the TV pilot, so they kind of fussed around a little bit. It was pretty late so there wasn’t any great problem getting a table.
I didn’t want to venture anything. This lunch was Ken’s idea. He was going to have to do the talking. He said, “Macha’s a really interesting person.”
“She’s been my best friend since second grade.” I ordered an avocado salad. Ken ordered a BLT. The waiter was wearing very short shorts and an attitude that suggested he was not interested in men or women or children or dogs or anything at all. The world deserves disdain, but it was probably going to get avocado salad and BLT. Weird guy. Probably all clingy and emotional once you’ve slept with him.
I wasn’t about to give Ken a break. Whatever he wanted to talk about he was going to have to bring it up.
“Macha and I aren’t really involved emotionally.” Ken said.
“Are you sure?” I asked him. “I think Macha likes you a whole lot.”
“Well, yes, I guess so, but I’ve told her that I’m too old for her.” And too gay for her, I thought. Let’s see if he brings that up. He did. “And you know that I’m bisexual.” I wondered how Myrtle Beach would have played this one. I just continued on with my nice high school student number. I nodded. What next? Now he’s going to tell me that he’s in love with me.
“Well, practically everybody seems to be bisexual these days,” I said. The table of Brazilians next to us perked up when they heard that. Maybe they didn’t speak English but there was nothing wrong with their sex vocabulary.
“Ken, I’ve never discussed you with Macha. When you showed me that tape I never talked about that. Not even with Glenn. I figured Macha is a grown-up. You’re not her first boyfriend. And whatever is cooking between you is your business. And if you’re just seeing her to keep some kind of contact with Glenn, that’s kind of crazy but that’s entirely your business.”
I was on a roll. The Brazilians didn’t really get it but they were loving it. Not a word was spoken at their table, just little heads bent over their plates with those little ears standing right straight up. “It’s the same with Glenn. If he’s really the shit you say he is then I’m going to have to pay the piper myself. It’s too complicated, Ken. Why don’t people just speak up and say what they want?” I really wanted an answer. So did the Brazilians. I’m sure they went right back to Sao Paolo and enrolled in English courses. They were missing some good stuff.
“Because they don’t now what they want,” Ken said. “Or they want a lot of things and they can’t have all of them, but they try anyway.” I was sort of beginning to like Ken. That was a good answer. “Anyway. I know it’s ridiculous, but I wanted to make one last try to steer you away from Glenn. You and I are sort of alike, Hugo. We’re kind of nice guys. And Glenn isn’t like us at all. He sees something beautiful or interesting or new and he wants to have it. He’s sort of like a television set. You flip the switch and the show goes on, and you flip the switch and the show goes off without any trace it was ever on the tube. The tube doesn’t change. Maybe someday it blows out. You and I think the show is going somewhere, that all this love counts for something. That it’s appreciated or maybe you think someday it will be something like being married or at least you’ll be remembered and have been a part of someone’s life. But it isn’t like that. I’m sleeping with Glenn, too, Hugo.”
I burst into tears, which surprised me. “I’m sorry, Hugo, I’m sorry.” Ken was reaching across the table holding my shoulder and kind of patting it at the same time. I just had my head down and was soaking my avocado salad. The Brazilians were really looking now; this was too good to be polite about. I took my napkin and blew my nose good and wiped my eyes. “I’ve got to go back to work, Ken. Don’t worry. I’m not really crying about Glenn. I’m crying about a lot of things. I’ve got to figure some of this stuff out. Can you pay for this? I’ll call you.”
So I stumble away from News Cafe, my eyes red and no sunglasses. I’m pretty okay by the time I get back to Armani. The manager doesn’t say anything. And I have to think. Why did I start crying when Ken told me he was sleeping with Glenn? That wasn’t such big news. After that trip to New York, Glenn was a pretty open book to me. Do I love him that much? Do I love him very much and I don’t even know it? You’d think if you were crazy about somebody that you’d be the first to know.
So when I get home I call Macha and I ask her straight off, “Are you in love with Ken Weitz?” I guess I was planning to warn her to use condoms and all that gross stuff they’re always talking about at school. She hardly needs to hear it from me. “I think I’m in love with his legs,” she answers. And then we both laugh and laugh and laugh.
henry rollins band
It’s June and it’s my birthday and to celebrate Myrtle (now Fred) and I went to the Henry Rollins Band concert at the Bay-side Amphitheater. Glenn is out of town coming back tomorrow and Mom and I will have dinner with him tomorrow night. You have to like Henry Rollins because he’s so handsome and has that great body, even if it’s covered in tattoos. He can’t sing, of course. But he gets pretty het up all the sa
me. He does this funny kind of upstage strut between numbers flexing his back, maybe to relax, maybe to show off that “Search and Destroy” slogan across his shoulders. He has quite a shtick, but I like his little conversational asides between numbers. This kind of sly, not too deep voice that makes you think there’s another Henry Rollins altogether from the rowdy roughneck tearing up the stage. Of course, that’s exactly what he wants us to think. He said, “I know, I know you want me to throw myself off the stage right onto you, don’t you?” And all those bikers and their chicks scream their heads off. “Last time I did you tore all my clothes off [more screams. He does have a great body …] and beat me with my microphone. Nothing doing. I love you but you hospitalize me.” Much screaming.
And he does one great song, “Liar.” In it he sings, “You give everything you’ve got but that’s all right because it’s to me.” I don’t think all those guys in their goatees and Charles Manson T-shirts and their ladies with the tons of awful red hair really get it. They just like all the noise and that crashing and cursing and howling he does.
As we drove away in Myrtle’s wretched old salt-worn Lincoln convertible, Myrtle said, “What’s cooking? You seem kind of blue tonight.” And I asked him what you’re supposed to do when you find out the person you think you love is also sleeping with somebody else. I didn’t feel like telling him that that person is also going out with your mother. That’s maybe beyond most gay guys’ experience.
“Hmmmmm,” Myrtle said. “Hmmmm.” Then sang Billie Holiday, “It’s the same old story that’s been told much too much before.” Then he said, “As the song says, it’s the same old story but it’s all new to me. Or to you, in this case. Well, let’s see. Men are no fucking good. We know that. As that other song goes, ‘He may be good fucking but he’s no fucking good.’ You can say all those things but it all boils down to, do you really know this other person at all? Or are you a complete asshole for getting all wrapped up in somebody who’s just fooling around? Oh, Hugo, there have been many, many songs written on this subject.”
My Worst Date Page 15