Monkey Suits

by Jim Provenzano

  “Mighty low, Mistah Tierra.”

  “That’s what I hear,” he quipped. Craig the chef finished garnishing Ritchie’s tray and glared at them.

  “Let’s move it, guys,” Neil Pynchon called out from further down the tent. He was once again captain, and once again doing a lot of superfluous supervising. He moved off to another area.

  Marcos whispered to Ed, “I wish that bitch would go on a diet, you know where they wire your mouth shut?”

  Craig waved Ritchie off. “C’mon, outta my kitchen.”

  Marcos snapped. “I hate to shatter your illusions, but this isn’t a kitchen, potato face. It’s a cramped piece of a tent in a frozen park.”

  “You shut up or you don’t get fed,” Craig warned without a trace of humor.

  “Oh, I never eat this crap. This is for bourgie trash and old money mouths.” Marcos glared at Craig, whose face shone bright red under his tall paper hat. “So, sweetness, how goes it?” He turned back to Ed while another cook arranged his tray.

  “Okay,” Ed answered. “Been busy.”

  “With who? Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t kiss and tell, do you?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re married. That’s so sweet. You two are such an ... interesting couple.”

  “Cut it out.”

  “Alright. Are you working?” Marcos took out a small stick of lip balm and quickly did his lips like a showgirl about to make an entrance.

  “Yup, been doing massages, classes. Hi Carissa,” Ed smiled at the diminutive woman who lined up behind Marcos. They kissed hello.

  “Ah, yes. You still doin’ that circle jerk?”

  “Healing circle,” Ed corrected.

  “Oh, excuse me, yes. How’s that going?”

  “Good. You oughtta come sometime.”

  Marcos dropped his jaw in surprise, then whispered, “I am not sick.”

  “Well, you don’t have to be. It’s for friends and the worried well, too.” Ed busied himself with arranging his garnish on the silver tray, struggling to remain polite.

  “Well, I don’t have friends dying. All my friends are under thirty.” Marcos smacked his freshly glossed lips.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ed asked, amazed at his remark. He gave a look over to Carissa.

  “Well, you know, all those old Seventies queens runnin’ around gettin’ pissed on in leather bars. That’s a whole ’nother generation. That ain’t my crowd.”

  “It’s not just one age group,” Ed stated. “You should be a little more concerned.”

  Carissa chimed in behind him. “The number of AIDS cases among adolescents has doubled in the last six months. That’s not a bunch of old Seventies queens, and neither are the women and IV drug users who–”

  “Alright Florence Nightingale. Thank you,” Marcos cut her off. “You wanna go healing old queens, you do it. I’m sick of people bein’ sick of AIDS.”

  “You think you’re immune?” Carissa asked. “Are you that sure?”

  “Honey, I heard all about it when I was livin’ in Philly. I don’t do the nasty. I take care of myself. I may party, but it’s all for show. I talk nasty, but I am not dumb.”

  Ed sighed. “It must be nice to be so sure of yourself.”

  “Well, I’m sure not gonna let some old queen get me up the butt.”

  “That’s enough of that,” Craig snapped from across the table. “Get out there and work.”

  Marcos picked up his tray, followed by Ed, who wished he could have a moment to compose himself before serving.

  “Boy, what a case,” Carissa sighed, walking out behind him.

  “Information is all he needs,” Ed told her.

  “And a solid bead-reading. How are you?”

  “Still asymptomatic.”

  “Still don’t wanna come to a meeting?”

  Ed fidgeted with his serving spoons. “I don’t think that kind of energy is right for me now.”

  “I understand. But listen, I’ve got a copy of Treatment and Data Newsletter in my backpack. You might want to think about getting on a new drug trial.”

  “Thanks. Florence.”

  Their trays laden with neatly arranged servings of baby lamb and wild rice, they headed out to serve dinner.

  During his break, Ed slipped momentarily out into a darkened back area behind the kitchen tent with Lee to take the break he deserved but wasn’t granted.

  Annually wrapped in miles of white Christmas lights, the courtyard trees of Tavern on the Green glowed behind them. He chatted blithely with Billy Heath and Lee, who conspiratorially shared a cigarette near a pile of freshly bagged leftovers.

  “This is so crazy,” said Lee.

  “I know,” Billy sighed, rubbing his shoulders. “We could be in a warm building across town, but no, they’ve got to be Fabulous.”

  “Within reason,” Ed said, fending off Billy’s offer of a cigarette.

  “Definitely,” Billy added. “After all, they’re all going to be together at the next party somewhere else, and it would just be too, too bo-o-oring to have a party in the same old museums or theater lobbies. Of course, this is all Ida Pomerantz’s doing. She’ll do anything to outdo her dear friend Trish Fuller, just to claw her way up to the top of the social circuit.”

  “Social circus,” Lee said.

  “You really like to follow their lives, don’t you?” Ed asked.

  “Not follow,” Billy corrected. “I observe. I don’t worship them. Man becomes the food of the divinity he worships.”

  “Who said that?” Lee asked.

  “I did,” Billy quipped.

  They chuckled as their smoke blended with the fog of their breaths in the chilly night air. Between passing the cigarette, Lee dropped it, having already scarfed a full glass of Chateau Bumbalo ’87. He bent down to the ground to retrieve it, but immediately jumped back.

  “Oh my God!”

  “What?” Ed and Billy cried.

  “Look, look, look, oh my God, It’s so sick!” Lee pointed toward the exposed rim of the foot-high platforms. Ed and Billy cautiously leaned down and peered under the wooden planks.

  At first barely perceptible, the shifting movement beneath the party’s stage seemed like tumbling leaves. But they weren’t leaves.

  Separated only by the just-built floor, under the very feet of the chatting and drinking revelers, crawled a small herd of rats; dozens of them. Thick-bodied stumps with tails waddled about, sniffing at the bits of food strewn about the lawn, between the wooden posts and near the garbage bags. The tiny dots of their eyes glistened in the dim light.

  “Oh, Lord,” Ed pulled away. Overcome with simultaneous revulsion and hysterical laughter, they raced back into the theatrical safety of the tent.

  As Marcos settled in to his apartment on Horatio, he looked over the small pile of club invites. Nothing for that night interested him. More go-go boys and drag queens. More booming house music, beer, and cigarettes. Maybe tomorrow night.

  He flicked through the television, stopping briefly on a late rebroadcast of the eleven o-clock news. A reporter stood under a harsh floodlight, his hair a bit too neat. The report was about a young man dying of pneumonia who’d been misdiagnosed and abandoned at St. Paul Hospital, his body untouched for a day and a half after his death. Marcos shivered and switched channels, missing the moment when a photo of the identified victim, one Charles Sinclair, was shown on the screen. In his recent yet brief labors, Charles was also known at his catering jobs as Chet, the same Chet who Lee last met in a movie theatre, and whom Brian had known, intimately, yet briefly.

  There was nothing worth watching, so he flicked the TV off. Snuggled into his bed, he scooted his Stork Club ashtray closer, lit a last cigarette, and flipped through his pile of Torso magazines to find a hunk for the night.

  “Kissinger was at the party tonight.”

  “How was he?” Cal asked from the bed as he watched Lee undress.

  “Oh, he was great. I served him a drink.”


  “What did he have?”

  “Sex on the Beach.”

  “Did you chat?” Cal teasingly lowered the bed sheets, displaying a few more inches of his smooth abdomen.

  “Oh yes.” Lee peeled off his socks. “I told him I loved him in Nixon in China. ‘Never knew you could sing so good.’” Cal lowered the sheets to reveal the dark patch of black hair above his thickening penis, which peeked from the covers. He lowered the sheets more as Lee tugged off his tented Jockeys.

  “Now, where shall we start?” Lee stood on the futon and surveyed Cal’s wiry musculature, his cock pointing upward to his belly button as it popped out of the sheet. He leaned down and began licking. As he reached up to Cal’s face, the two kissed. After a moment, Cal pulled away.

  “You smell like food.”

  “Fabulous Food?”

  “Uh, yeah. Why doncha hop in the shower?”

  Lee looked at him, insulted for a moment. What would have become a scowl shifted to a sly grin.

  “Only if you join me.”

  He did.

  Since Cal’s roommate worked days, and the walls of his apartment near Journal Square were thin, Lee become the host by default in their nights together. Cal continued to work several nights, and Lee’s catering jobs picked up sooner than he thought. That left them days free, or late nights. Lee made a habit of letting Cal know when he’d be home. A call at two in the morning was always Cal, who walked the twenty blocks back toward Lee’s apartment. Lee’s bathroom was also a bit roomier.

  Water cascaded down the smooth curves of Cal’s body as Lee kneeled, licking on Cal’s erection. He opened his mouth wide, letting the warm water trickle into his mouth. He gulped, then took in more, and squirted it up to Cal’s belly. They didn’t leave the tub until both had slurped, sucked and soapily tugged each other to growling orgasms under the shower. Drying off produced shivers of pleasure.

  Lying together in bed, Cal purred as he stroked Lee’s wet locks of hair.

  “I really like you coming on my face.”

  “Thanks. I really liked, god, you’re like a boxer with that jaw. I ... I never, I haven’t tasted your ... I don’t usually swallow, or let a guy–”

  “Look, I told you I’m negative, but we shouldn’t. I like doing it in the shower ‘cause it’s cleaner. Safer. I’ll do it any time you want like that, but we gotta do the rules.”

  “Woah. Yes. Fuck the utility bill.”

  They nestled, quiet, comfortable after their openness in making a sort of sexual pact.

  “So, how’s your friend doing? The one who’s sick.”

  “Ed? He’s not sick. He’s just positive.”

  “Sorry.”

  “He’s alright. He’s got this whole spiritual thing going on. Brian’s trying to be like all domestic and helpful, but he’s never really done that. Actually he’s a selfish jerk, so that’s what makes it tough for Ed.”

  “Must be rough,” Cal said.

  “Have you ... had to deal with that?”

  “A few friends have it, but that was before I met them.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “I would hope you would tell me, first of all.”

  “Don’t you think I would?”

  “Of course.”

  “You think I’d lie about something like that?”

  “No, I just–”

  “Would you?”

  “No.” Cal brought his face within an inch of Lee’s. “No.” He kissed him, as if to prove it. “Now why don't lick my butt like you been talkin’ about, now that it’s all clean, you slave to the rich.”

  With his glasses somewhere on a table, Lee looked down at the blurry vision of fuzzy mounds along Cal’s backside, trusting the hazy image before him, preparing to lose himself in its beauty.

  20 A giant hatched groove in the island’s surface, Fifth Avenue’s double-laned boulevard of wealthy white residents seemed to lead on forever.

  Ritchie stood in the middle island for several moments, glancing down at the neatly clipped shrubs, the freshly planted tulips and the expanse of traffic whooshing by on either side at 75th Street. He clung to the strap of his travel bag, then glanced at the addresses to figure out how far he was from his next job.

  The afternoon concert at the 92nd Street Y had been packed, and Ritchie sat toward the back wall as Mai Ling’s concert of three Bach solo pieces brought the audience to applause and a long line of fans.

  He’d stepped outside, hoping to catch her leaving. Then, realizing it would be a stupid way to meet this woman, after a few minutes, he hailed a cab.

  “Can I have that?” A light voice floated over the dull roar of passing cabs. Ritchie spun around to see Mai Ling in a simple black overcoat. The cool air put a blush in her cheeks.

  An older Asian woman held her violin case.

  “Oh. Hi.” He eagerly reached out to shake her hand, then regretted its seemingly simple friendly manner.

  “Have we? The Met, right?” she said.

  Other people skirted about them, hurrying past. She thankfully waved the cab off.

  Ritchie's heart leapt. “Oh, yes. I saw you were doing a short concert and. Excellent, by the way. Have you been performing elsewhere?”

  “Oh, yes. I went to LA and San Francisco and Seattle. It was very nice. I forgot how rainy it can be out there.”

  The older woman said something in Chinese. Mai Ling responded curtly.

  “You’re not some crazy fan, are you? ”

  “No, no. I just thought I’d like to get to know you.”

  “I'm just going a few blocks, actually. We could walk?”

  “Oh, um. Okay.”

  “No, she can go ahead.” Mai Ling gave some instruction to the woman who didn’t seem pleased, but she was sent off in another cab.

  Ritchie shifted his weight, thrilled to finally meet her again. What did this mean? Did she even think about dating?

  “I gave a few copies of your CD to friends for Christmas.”

  “Oh really? How nice. I hope they like it.”

  “How could they not? It’s really a nice recording.”

  “Oh thank you. I guess those Grammy people were right.”

  He almost pretended for a moment he knew about that, but smiled instead. “Listen, um, I have to get to a meeting, but when are you performing in New York again?”

  “Oh, not for a while. I’m practicing and heading off to Europe in a few months.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  “But I’ll be back in May.”

  “Well, I’ll look forward to that.”

  “Thank you, Richard.” She had remembered his name. Mai Ling smiled, waiting, her hands in her pockets.

  “Well, uh ... ” The uptown traffic cleared. “I’m going this way.”

  “I’m going West.” They stood apart.

  “Well, it’s nice to see you again.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have a good tour.”

  “Thank you.” Ritchie turned and waved again as he crossed the street. Mai Ling stood watching him go, her own lane rushing downtown.

  Ritchie turned away, thrilled to have met her again. That’s all, isn’t it? You should just be happy with that, right?

  As quickly as his doubts flooded him, they were swept away when he turned to see Mai Ling still watching him from the island after the light had changed. He rushed back across, dodging a pair of speeding cabs.

  “Listen,” he mocked a casual air, despite being a bit out of breath. “I don’t know if I’m way off base, but ... ” Her black eyes gleamed. Would she be completely insulted?

  “I would very much like to see you again.”

  “Oh. That might be possible.”

  “Perhaps dinner? You could recommend a good concert, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, as long as you wouldn’t mind me criticizing my competition.”

  “No problem.”

  “Do you have a pen?”

  “Felt tip, ball point or Grumbacher number seven?�
�

  “And don’t look at the art.”

  Neil Pynchon attempted to glare at his crew of ten waiters. Clustered in the immense white kitchen of a Park Avenue town house, a short Filipino maid, wiping a few dishes, looked on in amusement.

  “What a control queen,” Marcos crossed his arms as he whispered to Ritchie.

  Neil continued. “While the guests are here, do not look at the art. I don’t want to see you all gazing at the Manets while the guests are looking for a drink. You pay attention to them. Understood?”

  The silence of return showed a combination of acknowledgement and resentment. Neil was pushing his way up the captain’s rungs to swank private parties. Others weren’t.

  “So, you’ve all got a few minutes, so just wait in here until we call you.” Neil whisked out the swinging kitchen door, gleaming white on the inside, faux-green marble on the other. He stepped out into the massive living room the size of a museum wing to talk with the assistant to the resident, who owned a hundred twenty-seven department stores.

  The waiters shifted about, their black monkey suits in stark contrast to the gleaming white panels and cabinets of the kitchen.

  “The pantry is bigger than my whole apartment,” sighed one.

  “Two of mine,” Marcos added.

  “Did you see the art in there?” a tall balding waiter with glasses asked Ritchie.

  “Yeah, nice stuff.”

  “You should sell some of your stuff to them,” he suggested.

  “I don’t think they’re into post-modern,” Ritchie sighed.

  “Oh, not in front, but the other rooms upstairs have more contemporary works.”

  “Upstairs?” Marcos gasped. “You mean there’s more?” Marcos introduced Ritchie. “This is Raymond, one of our more industrious types, and not long for this lowly profession.”

  “Hopefully,” Raymond said.

  “He’s gonna get rich and make us wait on him someday.”

  “I suppose one can never be too rich,” Raymond added.

  “But one can be too thin,” Marcos added.

  “I’m serious,” Raymond continued to Ritchie. “I bring my portfolio all the time. It’s not embarrassing when a woman wants to see my work, maybe get a great new gown for a bargain. Some of them like to save money.”