Monkey Suits

by Jim Provenzano

  Winston was responsible for the influence and jewelry. The advance sales of his next book, detailing his Washington years, paid for their Hamptons summer home renovations (one-hundred-sixty thousand dollars) and every five years, an afternoon at Cartier (a discreet five thousand). With a few hundred thousand somewhere in between from her own inheritance, Trish decided to make the initial arrangements for her benefit at the Met, her favorite for a gala event. Not only was it simply the grandest of museums, it was also only ten blocks away from her home.

  The thousand dollar a plate tickets had already been paid for by most all the guests. The money was set to go into a non-profit fund and then sent to St. Paul’s Hospital, where Trish had frequently posed for photos with bedridden children in the AIDS ward. From the Upper East Side point of view, it seemed like just the right cause. Despite the presidential silence until Rock’s demise, Trish had become a champion for the cause, pushing aside the bitter jokes and fear. She’d had too many decorators and artist friends die. It was she who had made it a cause celebre, and she who first did it in style. All the more reason to wonder why on earth this group of AIDS people would want to ruin her party.

  Several luminaries were to attend. Broadway and film stars, Washington dignitaries, Jackie, Oscar, Calvin and Kelly, Gloria, the Tischs, the Steinbergs, the Petries, Blaine, Judy. Everyone on the A list would be there. That is, everyone who wasn’t afraid to come.

  By noon, Trish met in her study with her assistant Margaret, and Ellen Colbert, the Associate Director of the St. Paul’s AIDS Foundation. Both younger women wore bright business dresses with bows around their necks, looking slightly gift-wrapped. Trish wore a comfortable Donna Karan. Her new Bruno de la Selle hung on a hook in her nearby changing room, having been delivered only an hour earlier after a last minute fitting. Trish paced while the two younger women pored over the oversized photocopy of the table settings. They brooded and fretted like generals planning a major war campaign.

  “No, no, Maggie. We can’t put the Miltons at the same table as the Renaldis!” Trish smashed her cigarette into a nearby ashtray and continued pacing. “Maurice Renaldi just bought out all of Gregory Tenblum’s controlling interest in the Bindel Corporation, and the Miltons are on the board.” Thank goodness Winston kept her up on the stock market.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Ellen said while attempting a wan smile to Margaret, who was recalculating the revised number of guests.

  “Well, put them across the table, but don’t sit them next to each others’ wives, for God’s sake.”

  “Okay.” Ellen erased four names and rewrote them for the third time.

  “What’s the body count?” Trish asked. Margaret understood, but flinched at the term. Over two dozen guests had cancelled since the article hit the papers and the subsequent gossip hit the phone lines. Calvin and Kelly: out. Jackie: out. Bruno and his ... friend Gordon Bechamel: wavering.

  “One hundred-sixty-four, unless the Mayor is bringing ...”

  “Oh God, that’s at least nine tables out,” Trish sighed. “Get Philipe at Fabulous. Tell him to tell the florist and the rentals. I don’t want a single empty chair in that place tonight. And if that drag queen Bruno doesn’t show his ugly mug, I’ll never wear so much as a shoe string of his again in public!”

  30 Naturally, only A waiters were chosen. The blondest and most handsome, with a token smattering of women and minorities, were culled from Fabulous’ select computer files. Alex Tilson had stayed overtime at the office many nights securing the best and most well-behaved waiters for the event. Trish Fuller was one of the company’s best clients, and, after all, this was a benefit for AIDS.

  After receiving Margaret’s call for Philipe, who had called saying he’d arrive late, Alex rechecked his list. With the reductions, there’d be about ten extra workers. Maybe he could reapportion them as C waiters and not charge Trish Fuller. Alex rarely cancelled on waiters. They made a point of at least doing them that courtesy. Besides, a few hundred dollars didn’t make too much of a difference for a party costing over $300,000.

  Alex dialed an inside line to the kitchen two flights below him.

  “Craig, kitchen,” a curt voice said.

  “This is Alex upstairs.”

  “What now? Did they bomb the Met yet?”

  “Very funny. Listen, we’re gonna have to cut two dozen more for the Fuller party.”

  “What am I supposed to do with all the extra?”

  “Add it to that wedding on Saturday.”

  “I think not, dear. They’re having veal. We do not serve orso with veal.”

  “Well, just save it. Give it to God’s Love We Deliver. I don’t know. You’re the chef. I gotta make more calls.”

  “I hate you, Alex,” Kevin half-sang.

  “Thank you, Craig.” After hanging up, he surveyed his checklist. The rookies would get the early set-up. They always worked harder. He made a note on a Post-it to remind Philipe about the six people arriving late. Kevin Rook, Carissa Morgan, Lee Wyndam and who else? He tried not to forget the rumor someone had stuck in his ear.

  Surely, they couldn’t be part of the protest that was planned. Kevin did that kind of thing, but Carissa? Maybe. Lee? Never. The rest of them he didn’t know. He did know that if it came down that he knew, he’d be walking a razor-thin line at Fabulous Food.

  He dialed down to reception. “Jill, has Philipe come in yet?”

  “No, I haven’t seen him.”

  “Thank you.”

  Might as well get started on table assignments. While flipping through an initial printout, Alex scanned the files of waiters booked for the night. The proper number of A’s, B’s and C’s, hopefully. He began to pair them up, delicately arranging them by skill, seniority, and looks. The ethnics should be sprinkled. The seniors should get the head tables. The unknowns doled out to the perimeter. Extra captains. All of them would be watched.

  31 Over a month had passed before Lee saw Calvin again, strangely enough, in an empty swimming pool.

  Expecting to see him at ACT UP meetings, Lee had even polished a lame apology, not that he felt Cal deserved one. But Cal hadn’t shown up for weeks.

  Having found an entirely new group of people with opinions and plans, he put the apology aside. Marcos had been right. The parties, both paid catering work, and guest-listed invites to nightclubs, had picked up, which more often resulted in invitations to stay over with other guys, or a dawn PATH ride home. Lee’s life had begun to be almost completely nocturnal.

  Then he saw Cal, in an actual pool in the basement of a school on the Lower East Side that, until anything else better funded came along, was resurrected as a nightclub.

  Lee had kissed two guys, boyfriends of a sort, who’d made their invitation clear. Across the pool, Lee spotted Cal, and briefly, as if to display his status, defy jealousy, and move on, they walked toward each other, meeting at the center.

  “Hey.” He kissed Cal. He sensed the other guys at the pool’s edge looking on. “I’m really sorry.”

  “No, this one’s mine.”

  “Okay. We need to like, share ourselves if I’m gonna keep you my friend, right?”

  “That’s a good idea,” Cal said.

  “You are the guy I want most.”

  “Now?”

  “Well, maybe after those two.”

  “When you’re done, send ‘em my way.”

  Lee considered inviting Cal, but took the cautious route. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “How about the day after? Otherwise we’ll still be wanting to gossip about what we’re doing tonight.”

  “Who we’re doing.”

  One of the other things they later talked about was how to make a living doing something else. That seemed inevitable.

  After avoiding Monday night catering work, Lee had actually typed a new resumé on Cal’s computer. They’d gone out, had lunch, or sex, or not had sex. It was completely undefined and felt strange and different.

  Standing
in shorts and a white T-shirt, brushing off his tux in Kevin Rook’s apartment, he definitely felt different, but welcome. He was also a nervous wreck.

  “Listen, I don’t care who leaked it. That’s to be expected.” Carissa stood at Kevin’s full-length closet door mirror to fasten her tie.

  “It’s just more publicity,” Kevin added, as he walked back from the bathroom. The five other waiters –Carissa, Lee, David, David and Bob– finished changing into their work tuxes, their backpacks in various spots around Kevin’s small living room. His shelves were crowded with books, records, and piles of magazines. A few bold ACT UP posters graced the walls, as well as some art prints, including a movie poster of Brad Davis in Querelle.

  “But they got it wrong. Nobody said anything about throwing blood,” one of the Davids said.

  “Robert Goldstein did,” Bob noted.

  “He was joking,” Kevin explained. “Besides, he’s not in the affinity group. He needs to keep his job.”

  “Which means he might tell Fabulous,” Carissa warned.

  “Robert wouldn’t do that. I trust him.”

  “How many people are gonna be outside?” Lee wondered aloud.

  “Probably about forty or fifty.”

  “Not a big action.”

  “But big press.” Kevin assured.

  “High impact, low budget.” Bob added as he buttoned his shirt.

  “Did you hear?” Carissa said. “They’re dedicating the benefit to ‘the late Drew Van Sully.’”

  “When did he die?” Lee asked.

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yeah,” Kevin grumbled. “He’d spit on all of us if he were still alive, the rightwing toady. Do you know he read poems at Reagan’s birthday?”

  “I worked at his reelection dinner,” said one of the Davids.

  Kevin burst out laughing. “Tell him what you called it!”

  The David blushed. “Zelig does Nuremberg.”

  As Lee laughed with everyone else, the flyers he’d slipped under his tux jacket plopped to the floor.

  Kevin picked them up. “Didn’t you re-sew the lining like I said?”

  “No, I–”

  “Here.” Kevin turned Lee around, stuffing the small stack of fact sheets between Lee’s shirt, suspenders, and tux pants. He gave Lee a light pat on the ass and the two exchanged a flirting glance. Maybe after this daring action Kevin would consent to a date. Lee hoped he would. Forced out of catering, he would have to make a change, if he could only find the guts to jump into that pool.

  “So, what are we calling ourselves?” Carissa asked to no one in particular.

  “What do you mean?” Bob asked.

  “You know, our affinity group.”

  Lee thought a moment, then blurted out, “ACTUX.”

  Through the ensuing laughter, Kevin smiled, “What’s it stand for?”

  A David answered for him, “The AIDS Coalition To Undermine eXcess.”

  “Perfect!”

  A flurry of bad acronym jokes led Kevin to ask for a little order. “Okay, so we’re clear who takes which stations when the Mayor starts talking?” They’d gone over the plans at two other meetings over the last week, but he wanted it all to go swiftly.

  “Am I on the left or the right of the podium?” Lee asked.

  Kevin sighed. “Let’s go over it again one more time.”

  They pored over the enlarged photocopied map of the Metropolitan Museum rotunda. Carissa whistled the theme from The Bridge on the River Kwai.

  “I’m sick of waiting for you. We’re late!” Ed shouted at the bathroom door, glaring at the blurred image of Brian through the shower curtain.

  “Where’s Ritchie?” Brian called out.

  “He left half an hour ago. I’m leaving.”

  “Then go,” Brian shouted back. “I know how to get there.”

  “Fine!”

  Ed slammed the door closed, clutching his bag as he tromped down the stairs. Brian hadn’t even picked up his tux from the cleaners. Ed had had to nag him to get it cleaned again, despite the clots of dried food on the sleeves. Well, this was it. He could take care of himself. Ed wasn’t going to lose money over it, not with a student loan to pay off.

  “How are we doing, ladies?” Trish Fuller loomed over the table where two women from the benefit committee were busily rearranging the seating arrangements. A young prim brunette slowly pored over rows of beige place cards, each name scripted in calligraphy.

  “We’re working with the list as of three o’clock,” said the other woman.

  “Call the office again at five.”

  “Oh yes, definitely.”

  “We don’t know who else might chicken out.”

  The women attempted a giggle, but Trish was already out of earshot. After checking to see that the initial decorations were underway, she left the Met at four o’clock. Early that morning the florists had set to work. A fountain had been installed in the middle of the dining hall. Everything was going smoothly. Everything had to go smoothly.

  As they descended the front steps of the museum, Trish and Margaret noticed the obvious cluster of blue sawhorses set up by the police on the sidewalk below.

  “Oh, yes,” Trish put her hand to her chest. “Don’t forget to call our friend at the Commissioner’s office to make sure the theatrics are kept to a minimum, across the street.”

  Margaret tagged along, scribbling in her notebook and jotting down any stray must-dos that Trish thought up as they strolled down 81st Street. A few society women bid excited greetings.

  “Can’t wait until tonight,” cooed Jessica Cannenbury as she walked her shi tsus, politely avoiding mention of the Post column.

  “Are you wearing the Dior?” quizzed Annette Deitz, her arms loaded down with Bergdorf Goodman bags. Trish remained chipper yet coy. Tonight was her night, the party of the season, no matter who tried to trash it.

  “Maybe we should find out who’s organizing this protest and tell them the Mayor isn’t coming,” Margaret suggested.

  “I don’t think the Mayor is their only target tonight,” Trish said as she fished through her purse for a cigarette.

  Moments after the women left the Museum through the front, the bulk of the waiters showed up at the side door. Even arriving and departing dress codes banning shorts were followed, despite the sudden warm weather.

  Ritchie arrived a few minutes early, having securely locked his bicycle at a stand near the front steps. Marcos sat outside on the museum steps smoking a cigarette, sparing himself the burden of entering until exactly four o-clock. He’d watched Trish Fuller leave and scanned the cluster of police barricades.

  “Buenos pinga, Ricardo,” Marcos called as Ritchie approached.

  “Hey.” Ritchie removed his helmet as Marcos stood and flicked his cigarette away. “What’s with the barricades?”

  Marcos waved it off as he followed Ritchie into the museum. “Oh, those? It’s a gay AIDS thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Philipe looked thinner, drawn. His oft repeated lecture on decorum and swift service echoed through the hall. His well-worn jokes about dropping silverware brought few giggles.

  Ed, Brian, Ritchie, and Marcos stood in the back, staring off at the tapestries along the wall near the waiter’s coat rack. Philipe checked his watch, consulted with captains.

  The staff waited. Amid the standing choir of silence, every late footstep echoed all the way to the Etruscan Wing.

  “Are we all here? Good. We have many reports of some odd goings-on that are planned tonight,” Philipe announced, his voice oddly quiet. “I will make myself clear. Any of you who feel compelled to be a part of such activities, or interrupt the events, will be immediately dismissed. I want decorum and proper behavior at its best tonight. Am I understood?”

  As Philipe continued, six waiters - Lee, Kevin, Carissa, Bob, and the Davids - walked hurriedly to join the group. They came completely dressed and without bags. Lee nodded to Brian.

  “Ah, I see we have our double
-shifters. Is zat all of you?”

  Kevin called out a “Yes, sir.” Lee stood next to Brian, Ed, and Ritchie.

  “What’s the deal?” Brian whispered.

  “We worked a lunch across town,” Lee nodded.

  “Bullshit. What’s going on?”

  “We worked. A lunch. Across town.”

  Philipe continued. “After I am srough, zose of you who have not done so ... shenge.” The corner of his mouth crept to a smile as several waiters mumbled, “Shenge, shenge, shenge,” like a small army of Louis Jordan impersonators. He let them have their fun and went on checking his list.

  “Now, we hev a lot of femmus people attending tonight. Don gawk at them. Dey want to have a good time.” He then continued his lecture with a few points on wine-pouring.

  “Here we go again,” Brian mumbled.

  “Do you have sum-sing to add, Mister Burns?” Philipe glared solemnly.

  “No, sir.” All eyes were on him.

  “Very well. We shall continue.”

  “So, when’s the big ACT UP stripper gonna pop out of the cake?” Marcos nudged Brian.

  “Huh? Oh, that. I don’t know. Lee wouldn’t tell me squat.”

  “Oh well. No floorshow. Did you see who’s at my table? What’s his name, that

  actor, with his beard,” Marcos munched discreetly on an hors d’oeuvre tray of endive and beluga caviar. Brian peeked out from behind a chintz fabric screen.

  “Beard? She’s not even a goatee.”

  Marcos nibbled some more. “Ooh, look at all those chins.”

  “Yeah, there’s money in all those old pockets, too,” Brian surveyed the room.

  “You thinkin’ ’bout snaggin’ a sugar daddy, Bri baby?” Marcos quizzed.

  “I was,” he admitted, suddenly relieved to halfheartedly confess his previous career. “For a while.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, babe.” Marcos finished chewing and swallowed, making a comic gesture to force the food down his throat. “Any pretty queer boy worth his grits tries it out in this town. I just didn’t like the hours.”