Monkey Suits

by Jim Provenzano

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Fuller, my name is Chip. We met a while ago under unusual circumstances.”

  “How did you get this number?” The familiar New England drawl grew irritated.

  “Never mind.” Brian’s hands quivered. His heart was racing. The sudden surge of power seemed to be coursing through the phone line into his veins. Actually, it was just the coffee. “I’m sure you remember me.”

  “From where? What is your point?”

  “Well, I have something very personal to discuss with you.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t remember. You’ll have to-”

  “Does a silk blindfold and a blood cocktail in Room 1220 of the Helmsley Palace ring a bell?”

  35 Behind a secluded shrub in the Central Park Ramble, a young man on his knees masturbated while fellating a vice cop, who had momentarily decided that an afternoon blow job would be more amusing than making another arrest.

  Less than a few hundred yards south, in a less predatory area of the park, Winston Fuller and Brian Burns’ meeting involved nothing nearly as pleasurable.

  They met at a quiet walkway under a canopy of blossoming trees. Bronze statues of Robert Burns and Walter Scott sat solemnly nearby, facing each other in silence.

  Even after Fuller handed him a thick business-size envelope filled with hundred dollar bills, they waited to speak until a jogger passed.

  “There’s five thousand. I trust that’ll keep you quiet.”

  “Oh, yes.” Brian nodded, turning away, then back. “Look, I ...”

  Their eyes met for a long moment, the first ever, actually. Brian suddenly felt sorry for the man. He wanted to return the necklace, as a gesture, to embarrass Fuller with his dual proximity to the supposed scion of power.

  “I really don’t do this, you know. I mean I’m against this, but I’m really poor.”

  “Yes, that’s a common problem.” Fuller’s eyes squinted. “Didn’t I see you elsewhere?”

  “I served you dinner.”

  “Oh yes.” Confused a moment, he put it aside. It didn’t matter how the boy had found him out. What mattered was shutting him up. It was one of many times Winston regretted having never taken advantage of less legal associations that made people disappear. “Well, what’s the matter with that kind of work? I hear the pay there is rather good.”

  “Oh, spare me.” Brian pointed to his pocket where the cash lay. “Do you know how long it would take me to make this much? Have you ever been poor?”

  “Well ...”

  “This is just a dent for you, just a little bump in your bank account.”

  “Don’t be such an ungrateful little snot,” Fuller huffed. “I’ll see to it that pimp of yours gets put in jail.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you do to him.”

  “If you try to take this any further, I guarantee you that I’ll ...” Fuller hesitated.

  “What? Call the cops? Have me jailed? I hardly think that Mister ‘Tattoo the Queers’ is ready to come out of his musty closet just yet.”

  “You know, if you’d merely played your hand a little better, I could have gotten you a decent job, set you up somewhere.”

  “I don’t want to be set up. I don’t want a decent job. I come from decent, I kissed the ass of decent. I’m sick of New York and the decent people like you that run it.”

  Brian halted a moment, his face flushed from his sudden outburst. A stout Black woman strolled a baby carriage past them. The white infant’s face resembled a marshmallow with eyes.

  Brian lowered his voice. “You don’t have to worry. I won’t be making any noise after this. I won’t even be here.”

  “You know, Tony lied to me about the character of a few boys like you. I wonder if he lied about their health as well?”

  “You’re gonna keep wondering, old man. Better hope you die of a heart attack so nobody finds out you suck dick.”

  “How dare you–”

  “Save it, Winston. I’m outta here.”

  He walked off, patting the thick envelope in his coat pocket.

  Winston Fuller turned away in the other direction to get a cab.

  36 Edward, my love,

  i know you’re thinking i did a lot of bad things, or else you’re going to hear about some bad things, but i never really got away with it. always seem to mess things up for myself even with you around to fix it for me. i would tell you where i’m going, but it might get you in trouble, maybe. you probly know, but just to be sure, keep it to yourself. don’t worry. i’ll be back, probably with a new hair color & a pimp daddy named Jean-Claude.

  have always loved you, never enough, i guess. take care & keep healing. the world needs more like you.

  XOXOXOXO Bri

  Ed sat on the bed silently. He looked around the room and into the open closet. Must have left a few hours ago, Ed thought. Some of Brian’s clothes still hung in the closet. Nothing much else was missing; a suitcase, some sweaters, his leather coat.

  Ed lay back, thinking on the past years like circles, an astrological chart that had warned him about the crazy times with Brian. He turned his face into the rumpled white sheets that smelled of them both. More than sad, he felt emptied, eaten away. Perhaps there was something he could have done.

  No, it wasn’t his fault. Brian was bothered by something worse than Ed’s health, or just losing his job, but he wouldn’t talk about it. It was as if he saw what he could become and it terrified him. For once, it was something Ed could not fix. Something in Brian had clicked.

  Ed stood and went to the kitchen phone. He dialed and got a message machine. “Hi, this is Lee. I’m not in, but then again, I never really was in.” Beeeep.

  He paused, unsure whether to confide so soon.

  “Lee, this is Ed. Listen, Brian left. We should talk. I know you mentioned you wanted to get out of Jersey and, well, if you wanna, we could fix up the storage room we have. You know it used to be a bedroom. Wouldn’t take much work. I’m sure Ritchie’d be happy to have you, and we know you, and, well, you know the space and we kinda need a third to cover the rent ... Anyway, call me.”

  He hung up and walked out to the open loft, which seemed very big and lonely. The sun was caught at that moment where the light bled straight across the skyline, a rusty orange under the dark curls of incoming clouds that approached Manhattan and Brooklyn. Ed watched it for a few moments.

  He didn’t think of Lee as a replacement for Brian. That would be impossible. They could share stories and wounds. Lee could support him in ways Ritchie would never understand. What stood between them as becoming friends had run away, and in a way, Ed wanted to thank Brian for that. He didn’t think he’d get a chance.

  Anticipating Lee’s answer to his call, he went into the storage room and began cleaning.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we ask that you remain seated until we have completed our takeoff.” The stewardess’s voice mixed in with the music that poured into Brian’s ears.

  One of the uniformed women had asked him to remove his earplugs until after takeoff. He’d complied momentarily, but as she disappeared up the aisle, he scrunched down in his seat and plugged them back in. The music pounded into his head. He gazed at the gritty gray cluster of Manhattan bordered by the cluttered flatlands of New Jersey and on the other side, Brooklyn.

  Another voice crackled over the speakers, a sturdy male voice that Brian tried to ignore. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain. We’ll be arriving in Paris in about seven hours and twenty minutes. Sky’s are clear and we’ve got a long journey, so sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  Brian wanted a drink. He pulled out his wallet and glanced at the small stack of bills packed neatly in a plastic currency exchange pouch. Francs are so colorful, he thought as he flipped through the crisp paper. In his hand was more cash than he’d made in four months of catering. Winston Fuller had proven himself a generous, if not nervous and involuntary, benefactor.

  Stuffing the pouch away in an inside
pocket next to his wallet, which contained his driver’s license and passport, he leaned back. Ed would understand. Ritchie and Lee, too. Maybe he’d write to his parents. Other than that, who cared about him, after all?

  He forced a yawn as his ears popped again. The sun shifted, slitting a golden streak across the cabin. Leaning to the window for a last look, he wanted to see what he thought was the source of all his problems disappear, at the same time half-knowing that the problem lay not in a city, or the people in it, nor even in his hastily assembled luggage.

  Nevertheless, he wanted one last look, but it was too late. New York had already faded under a blanket of cloud.

  37 As one hand scratches the back of another, so does one in power assist a friend in need. Following the benefit fiasco, the editors of New York decided to run a lavishly photographed “in-depth” story on uptown’s most popular caterers, Fabulous Food. It told the American fable of the hard-working owners who sweated out the years to rise to the top, becoming New York’s premiere food service company and raking in over fifteen million dollars a year. Of course, the company frequently made donations to charitable causes, the article noted.

  Flattering and intricately staged color photos featured some of the company’s “hardest-working captains,” among them the beaming Neil Pynchon. The caption described him as an “aspiring actor.” Carefully posed in another photo was co-owner Fenton Gill amongst a crew of chefs in crisp paper stovepipe hats.

  Noticeably absent was Philipe Berget, who was “unable to attend the photo shoot.”

  The night of the last spring fete at the Temple of Dendur, a kind of dread swept over the staff. Resentful bitching about the article fluttered through every conversation. Rumors spread, mumbled accounts exchanged during the cacophony of arranging chairs and tables:

  “We’re doing a party for that magazine next month.”

  “We’re getting paid, but Fabulous isn’t billing the magazine a penny.”

  “I heard Brian Burns took off for Spain with a painter.”

  “No, Portugal.”

  “Why don’t we ask Ed? Isn’t he working tonight?”

  Over the pile of glinting silver, as hands with napkins briskly wiped the utensils clean of spots:

  “Everybody who was at the party has to go to the office and take a lie detector test.”

  “Kevin will never work again.”

  “Oh, I saw him last night. He’s already got a bartending job at that new club. It’s fabulous.”

  And by the stone reflecting pool, among the small cluster of candle lighters and arrangers:

  “I heard Philipe’s in the hospital.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not what you think it is.”

  “And what is it you think I think it is?”

  Once again, Philipe was not supervising. Ron Bellows, the new head captain, was an awkward replacement. His attempts to rule with an iron fist were met with giggles, rolling eyes, and dubious submission. He’d also forgotten to tell someone to ice the champagne, and another to set up the coat racks. But the men and women had worked the place so many times, they could practically feel a gap in their efforts if anything was forgotten.

  Despite their help in filling the blanks, they were running late. A few early guests stood waiting at the door to the Temple while Ron rushed through last minute instructions. His round face blushed red. A dozen waiters, rushing to clean and arrange the bars, hadn’t been given enough time to don their tuxes. Nevertheless, they sat, or stood, obedient.

  By the time the tables were set for the party to celebrate the merger of Rothman, Fuchs & Beame with the investment firm of Transcorp, International (a merger which would be deemed illegal by the Securities and Exchange Commission nine months later, and whose private dealings would bring the top chairmen to federal grand jury indictments as well), the waiters sat along the stone bench that skirted the Temple.

  “Don’t sit on the chairs,” Ron shouted his new dictum. Roll was quickly called.

  Ron eyed the museum party planner, a chubby queen who paced impatiently along the reflecting pool. Returning to his clipboard, he clarified yet another new instruction.

  “You will say, ‘Here,’ or ‘Yes,’ and you will raise your hand.” Ron spoke loudly, his face as cheerless as the stone temple behind him.

  “Now, about the rules of eating and drinking, which have been pretty slack up to now,” he continued. “Fenton Gill himself has said if anyone is caught drinking alcohol or eating food when not on their meal break, they will be fired. You know our two captains, Neil Pynchon and Andrew Spears, are going to be watching you as well ...” He gestured to the men as they stood near him.

  While Andrew seemed to take the duty of having to rat on his friends with a bit of distaste, Neil broke into a proud grin.

  “And if anyone gets caught,” Ron warned, “I hope it’s not someone I like. I mean, every time I say this, that’s it. Absolute.”

  “Absolut?” whispered Marcos into Lee’s ear. “I could do with some of that right now.” Lee punched his thigh.

  Ron glared at them. “So, do that. Stand there, look good ... and ... well, just do it.”

  Silence.

  “Now, those of you who haven’t, go and change.”

  “Shenge, shenge,” a few waiters mumbled in a last shred of humor.

  “No! No!” Ron blasted. He pronounced it deliberately, without a trace of an accent, holding his finger like a general. “Change.”

  Not only had Lee suffered through the lurking beginnings of a cold, he was sure Cal had given it to him. One misplaced sneeze and the whole table would lose their appetite. Frank, the service bartender, wouldn’t let him have any juice.

  “I’m not gonna have enough left for drinks!” he squealed.

  “So pour it straight up,” Lee snapped as he took a glass.

  “We don’t have enough for every waiter to guzzle.”

  “What? This company makes fifteen million a year and can’t afford to give me a glass of juice?”

  “No.”

  “So That’s fuckin’ bullshit.” Lee snapped. Frank glanced around. A few waiters stood by, listening. “Do you want me to sneeze all over my table?”

  Frank sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, alright? Lenny said no juice for the waiters.”

  Lee, who had spent most of his life avoiding conflict, who cringed when arguments erupted near him, whose knees quivered at the sight of a clenched fist, suddenly felt rage. Not the rage of before, but more singular, clearly honed. He knew where to point it. His rage was at himself and his self-imposed serfdom.

  “You tell Zooty Menooty I took his juice without your permission,” he said as he poured a second glass. “And if he wants me stoned to death for it, he’ll have to do it with my guts full of Fabulous Food-owned orange juice.”

  “Getting some guts now, after you chickened out at your little demonstration?”

  Lee put the glass down, dumbfounded by Frank’s sly smirk. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. Any idea.”

  After ducking into the rest room, Lee ran cold water over his face, toweled off and combed his hair. As he put his glasses back on, he cringed for a moment at the reflection. His bow tie was crooked, his shirt wrinkled. His tux felt about three sizes too large. His face was pale as a clown. He suddenly realized his problem. He was in enemy territory.

  The ‘clear the plates’ signal had been given moments before he returned to the floor. A line of waiters, one plate in each hand, moved briskly in a line toward the drop-off area. Lee rushed to get back to his table, but the guests had already left.

  “Could we have more wine?” a man at someone else’s table asked. He nodded silently and immediately forgot the request. He had dessert to serve. These people would never understand.

  As the clatter of final breakdown filled the back hallway of the Temple, Lee griped with Marcos as they handed dessert plates to the cleanup crew, their white aprons smeared like butchers with raspberry sauce and gravy. “I don’t know
if I can take this anymore,” Lee said. A wall of milk crates had yet to be filled with dirty dishes. His feet were pounding.

  “Face it,” Marcos said. “You do this kind of work because you hate yourself.” He wiped his hands on a tablecloth. “You think of yourself as nothing more than a slave. That’s as far as you will ever get, and this is as close to wealth as we’ll ever get.” He wiped his finger on a napkin and tossed it into a trash bag of laundry. The crashing noises of a rushed clean-up rumbled about them.

  “Well, what about you?” Lee asked as they headed back for more dessert plates.

  “I’m not saying I’m any happier. I just don’t care about them.” Marcos pointed to the Temple’s cluster of empty chairs. “They don’t care about us. They do not see us. I have come to terms with that. I have a life. But you and most of the others ...” He nodded to the rushing parade of harried young men. “I wish more of these girls would pack up and leave like Brian did. The future is crowded.”

  “Let’s not talk about Brian.” Lee still hurt from Brian’s disappearance, how he didn’t so much as call, as if he had left him in this world to fend for himself.

  “Ooh, still a sore spot.” They walked back out to the noisy cluster of tables. Neil Pynchon shouted an order to the phalanx of men bagging chairs.

  “Don’t scrape them! Pick them up!” The herding moans of wooden chair legs on granite lightened.

  “Look around you,” Marcos nodded to Neil Pynchon. “That power queen that just got jacked up to captain. I mean, you know that pretty face sucked dick to get there, and you know what’s dumber? She thinks it’s an honor!”

  They pulled a tablecloth and folded it ceremoniously like a flag.

  “I saw her on TV last night.”

  “Really?” Lee asked.

  “Yes, and she’s been braggin’ about it all day! She’s doin’ one a those infomercials, hawkin’ tooth bleach!”