Now that seemed like a lie, or an excuse for starting on a bad foot.
“Well, I’m here now. I had a big sale at the end of my shift.” Since we were lying, what the hell.
“Another purple tie?” Matt asked.
“No,” I said. “Yours was my biggest sale of the day. Are you finished your coffee, already?”
Matt sipped through the straw.
“Actually,” he drawled. “I’ve had two cups and one of these icy things.”
“You’ll be pissing razor blades. I’ve had my quota of coffee for the day, so I’m going to get one of those big fucking chocolate chip cookies.”
Matt hesitated, and then hopped over to the counter. This gave me a chance to size him up from the back, something I really didn’t get a chance to do earlier. I liked what I saw. I just wished he wasn’t so fidgety. He tapped on the cookie counter, and rocked on his feet. I felt like getting up and anchoring him. I didn’t understand why he was so nervous. Surely, this wasn’t his first time fishing in the mall for a beautiful trout like me. I mean, this sort of thing is Gay Pick-up 1.1, taught in Miss Pearly Bottoms fifth grade faggot class. I sighed thinking that I might have picked up another loser. The fidgeting could be more than just the coffee. I watched carefully to see if he scratched — a sure sign of a heroin addict. I wasn’t going to hang around a druggie tonight, especially at Christmas when the only dust should be Tinkerbelle’s.
He returned, cookie in hand, held out to me like a votive candle. He smiled nervously. I grasped the chocolate chip host and took it between my fingers. He stared at me, never blinking. It made me nervous, so I broke the cookie and offered him half, which he took, gobbling it in two bites. Hungry dude, and now with an additional caffeine jolt, he might just bounce around the mall. I ate my half more lady-like, not as Viv taught me, but as Miss Julie Andrews would.
Where to begin? We just couldn’t sit there over the empty iced coffee cup and crumbs, and make google eyes at each other. I reached into my conversation log, and not far from the surface, mind you.
“Matt,” I said, with a Cheshire grin, not beguiling, but certainly breaking the ice. “Do you cruise the Mall often?”
“Cruise?”
“You know, search for human companionship.”
“Never,” he said. “What kind of person do you think I am? I’m not some easy guy starving for something better than a cookie.”
He sounded offended, but the truth was the truth. If he weren’t cruising, then just what definition would he place upon his conduct? It was cruising by every definition I knew, Miss Pearly Bottoms and all that. I tried to rescue the comment.
“Well, maybe you’re not easy. But you cruised me for at least a half-hour, with all the skill of seasoned hunter. Then, you came and babbled all that crap about never having done this before.”
“Well, I haven’t. I come to the Mall to shop.”
“I bet you do.”
“No, really,” he protested. “I’ve seen good looking men in the mall before, but I never had an interest, or at least the courage to further an acquaintance.”
“Further an acquaintance?” I said. “I like that. I really like the way you talk. What do you do? Are you into the writing arts?”
“No. Computers.”
“Computers? Really?”
I had little interest in computers. They were just a toy you played Pac Man on, and I hadn’t the inclination. However, I knew a money job when I heard one. They don’t want to know ya, but take something away. How mercenary Viv had inclined me. I shook my head hoping that her near-cat house morals would flee to the parking lot.
“I work at Axum Labs,” Matt continued. “I’m a researcher. I also write code for PCs.”
“PCs. I’d like to get one of those,” I lied. Where would I put it? All those fucking wires would need dusting. “They’re hot. My friend Russ has a Commodore. He’s got this flight simulator game, he plays for hours.” When he wasn’t playing with himself, that is.
“I don’t write game code,” Matt said, as if I was really carrying on an earnest conversation. “I’m mostly into network research. You know — connectivity and packets.”
“Packets? Sounds like interesting work. Have you done it long?”
“Since April. My folks moved up from Texas. My Dad’s a civilian expert for the Air Force at Maguire.”
“Military brat?”
“Something like that. He’s been here a while. I stayed back, finished my schooling and lived like any homeboy should.”
“Homeboy?”
“Houston.”
“I knew you were an urban cowboy. Do you ride those mechanical bulls?”
He swiped his hat off and laughed. I finally saw his hair — a bit mussed from the cap, but jet-black, a mass of sexy curls, a perfect accompaniment to his eyes. I decided then, he could be mainlining silly putty, he would be my date for the night.
“Shoot! I’m no cowboy. I’m a homeboy, from the Melrose.”
“I thought you said, Houston.”
“Melrose is in Houston. It’s the gay homeboy’s real estate.”
“The ghetto.”
“You can call it that, if you want. Yes, call it that.” He smiled. My heart dropped. He was speaking now, and it was like listening to a sparkling quartet by Mozart.
“So your dad got transferred to Jersey and you followed.”
“No. I stayed in Melrose for some time after he left, but there was an opportunity to work at Axum Labs, so I came up here. Work’s good — have my own place here, in town, and the folks are close by — Mom, Dad and sister Mary.”
Sounded like the holy family to me, especially sister Mary. He had a full set and all I had was a manicurist version of Cher, who called me shithead and was glad I wasn’t under foot. I had heard enough. Any more information and I’d puke. I wasn’t about to divulge my life history. He already knew what I did for a living and where. ‘nuff said. However, I ventured one additional query — just out of curiosity.
“So you’re out to your family.”
“Out?” He gave me a quizzical look as if I had been speaking Turkish instead of Faggolish. “You mean, do they know I’m a gay guy?”
He said this with such bravado and so loudly, I winced. I was out and about, but I didn’t want the whole State of New Jersey to know it. One of these sweet shoppers might be carrying a baseball bat or a Lugar. The days of I believe in fairies hadn’t dawned yet, even in the great liberal Northeast.
“Shhh. Yes. No need to go on Public Radio about it.”
He lowered his head and his voice, almost to a whisper.
“They’ve known for an age, and they are mighty fine with it.”
Mighty fine? Wasn’t that a pudding?
“Even sister Mary?”
“Especially my sister. You see, if a homeboy doesn’t have his family, he’s got nothing. When daddy moved away, I was lost.”
“You didn’t have a boyfriend?”
Matt looked askance. I had hit a nerve. Didn’t mean to do it, but he could have just as well asked if I had one, a boyfriend that is, not a nerve. That wouldn’t have even broken a nail.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t men to pry.”
“That’s okay. I’m not just ready to talk about it.”
“So don’t.” I finished my cookie, and then farted about looking for the next words out of Dodge. “So, what does a homeboy do for fun on a cold, wintry night in New Jersey?”
“Actually,” he said. “I haven’t had too much fun since I’ve been here.”
“How depressing. So you came to the mall looking for an expert in matching ties to customer’s tastes and fancy.”
“To a career boy,” Matt remarked.
“Now, Mr. PC programmer, don’t you mock retail.” I tried to mime his drawl. It sounded a bit like a Brooklyn knock-off of Mae West. “Where else can you fart and fuss over Yves St Laurent without having to buy him? The clientele can be real frustrating and the management a sack of s
hit, but every once in a while an angel face comes along and invites me . . . to have a cup of coffee.”
“But you’re not even drinking the coffee,” Matt said, not unkindly.
“No, we’re shopping. I’m in the market for eyes today.” He stared at me again and I was pinned like a butterfly. “And . . . that’s what I got. A pair of eyes in a size ten shoe.”
“Twelve.”
My young heart went Titanic.
“Oh, honey,” I said. “Go to twelve and a half and I’ll forget the eyes altogether and well be in the market for BVDs. So, you are in retail, after all.”
He chuckled. It was a sonorous chuckle — drawled even. Nice match for my Ave Maria voice.
“You’re funny,” he said. “You make me laugh. I need to laugh.”
“At Christmas time, we all need to laugh. What we need is a visit to my friend Russell.”
“Russell?”
I pointed to Tux and Ties.
“In there, the queenliest queen you’ve ever met. Makes me look like Joe Namath. A real hoot, and . . . my best friend. C’mon.”
“Well, I don’t know. I was thinking just you and me could . . .”
“Of course. But we need a venue. Nothing’s done in a vacuum, except the carpeting. Let’s see what Russ’ got planned for tonight.”
Matt slid into gloom.
“Now, you don’t need to do anything you don’t want to do.”
“Oh, I want to go have some fun. I like fun, but . . . I mean . . . I don’t even know your last name. I know nothing about you.”
“What’s there to know? Are you writing my autobiography or are you spinning me around your size twelve shoes? If we like each other then, I’ll tell you everything from my cradle roots to the time I sold you that purple tie.”
Suddenly, my heart hitched. He had bought that tie for a special friend. Now perhaps that was the rub, but I didn’t want to know. I pulled him up from the table.
“So what’ll it be?”
He sighed, but then smiled, his hat re-registered over his raven curls.
“Tux and Ties,” he said. “Lead on.”
“This time only,” I said. “I generally don’t lead.”
We scooted out of the bistro, the ceremonial concluded. We were on to the more developed portion of the dance card. Suddenly, I turned to him.
“Powers,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“My last name. It’s Powers.”
He laughed.
“Kieler,” he barked, his hand outstretched for a good ole homeboy shake.
I grasped it, although upon hearing his last name, I could only think one thing: Ruby.
Chapter Four
Christmas in The Cavern
1
Tux and Ties proved to be a quiet cove, since few weddings and proms take place at Christmas. However, I knew that next week would bustle as New Year’s proved to be a better stimulus for formal wear. Still, Russ found something to keep him busy; a customer with a size thirteen shoe, Holy Mother of God. I dragged Matt in through the casements and called for assistance. The place appeared abandoned, but I knew better. I spied four legs behind the curtain to the dressing room. Russ was taking measurements as only he could. I cleared my throat, but to no avail. Matt appeared embarrassed, but did chuckle. He slouched on the glass case, constantly gazing back out to the mall.
Finally, I announced in a loud voice, “Anyone see a fruitcake? I’ve seemed to have lost my fruitcake.”
The curtain swished open, the customer adjusting his pants and my friend Russ pouting like Butterfly McQueen.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Fancy dress ball?” I asked.
“No,” said the customer. He was a looker, every bit his shoe size. He had soft tawny curls and was a head taller than Russ. “A little private party.”
“So I see.”
“No, you don’t,” Russ snapped, striding toward the counter. “But who have we here? The man from the jacket racks.”
Matt fidgeted, blinking his gorgeous eyes. I wanted to smack Russ, but we had come to his haven for the evening’s itinerary, after all. So I accepted a little pay back.
“Russ, this is Matt.”
Russ smiled, and then touched Matt’s hat brim.
“Ride ‘em, cowboy.” He turned to the customer. “And this is . . . what’s your name?”
“Chris,” said the giant — a gentle enough looking giant. He’d be a great bookmark in the club later.
I reached for Chris’ hand — a massive hand, and as I did Russ winked.
“I’m Martin.”
“Good name,” Chris said. I blinked.
“So,” I said, resolved that introductions were complete. “Are we off to The Cavern, or is your private party drifting into the back room?”
“Don’t be silly,” Russ snapped. “Business is business. I’ll just finish these measurements and I’ll meet you there in an hour.” He glanced at Chris, who grinned. “Maybe two.”
Matt was halfway to the door. I didn’t think he cared too much for Russ. My flighty sister was an acquired taste, after all. To know him was to love him . . . simple soul that . . . well, there has only been one Russ amongst us, thank God. Where would we find another?
I didn’t want to lose Matt’s interest, so I bid Russ and Mr. Thirteen-inch shoe a farewell, and then headed for the parking lot. Matt drove a Ford Cherokee (go figure) and he followed my piece of shit Honda Civic to Long Branch. My little heart went pittipat, but I was trying to keep myself in gear. Every time I peeked through the rear view mirror, I expected to see something other than a blue Cherokee and a cowboy hat. However, he stayed the course.
Dusk closed in, and even more so. It felt like snow. I didn’t mind. It had been a mild winter so far — cold, but nothing more than rain. I loved a white Christmas, especially if I was getting a Christmas present — a vacuum broom. What did you think I meant? Still, I kept myself in rein. We’d park the cars near my apartment and go directly to The Cavern. If my cowboy — from Houston — why no, ma’am; from Melrose — the queers and steers ghetto — if he wandered off with another filly or proved to be a bad drunk, I’d save myself a holiday headache, although I had plenty of Motrin. Who knows? Perhaps he could sing. I would soon find out as the Jersey Gay Sparrows would be roosting at The Cavern tonight to warble a pink version of an ersatz Christmas concert — a few carols and a Chanukah melody. I had a solo.
I parked in my usual spot facing toward the beach, and then immediately directed Matt to the visitor’s lot across the street. It’s funny how we do things by rote, so much so they become lost in a haze of more important memories. However, I recall the precise logistics of that first date, for that was what this was. First dates were always awkward. Did he adjust his hair and hat before turning off the engine? Did he lock the doors? Did he hesitate before crossing the street? And, most important, did he take my hand or did he shuffle beside me down the street? In fact, Matthew Kieler didn’t hesitate, nor did he straighten his hair and hat or lock the truck door. He just strode to my side, and then rocked awaiting my directions. So I hooked myself on his arm and moved him along the street to The Cavern’s entrance. He only said one thing as we moseyed along. I’ll never forget it.
“This place must be pretty in summer.”
And I thought, do you mean to stay around and find out?
2
The Cavern usually didn’t awake until eleven or nearer to midnight, but it was Christmas, so the regulars were already there and in a festive mood. Extra activities tonight — a leather Santa and a subset of us Jersey Sparrows and the Monmouth contingency of the Errata Erastes Choir, our local Lesbian warblers (or grunters — whatever your perspective). So The Cavern percolated early that evening. I remember it well — Teddy Fitz manning the bar, his rippling muscles shining under the flashing Budweiser sign, and Gus the Bouncer, not collecting the cover charge yet, which didn’t kick in until eight o’clock. He was a burly bear, but as tender
as a teddy, but not like Teddy Fitz, who was everyone’s sweetheart — the bearer of the sweet liquid ambrosia a la tap and shaker. The cute busboy Nick was on duty and that hotty — what’s his name . . . Scott or . . . Steve — something with an S. He was sizzling, but quiet — a memorable sight nonetheless. I can still see him in my mind’s eye, even though he’s passed beyond the shadow. Then there was Bobby, the waiter — eyes filled with magnetic trouble, everyone caught in his trace.
The bar was bellied with the beach bums — Sam, Kurt and Mother. They weren’t really bums, but they always seemed to be at the bar from the time I entered to the time I left — never failing. Mother was the oldest specimen of drag queen to my acquaintance. He must have been seventy and I would love to spin his story, if it were known. However, it was a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Mother, with his sagging falsies, shabby feather boa and askew lipstick was a fixture at The Cavern — as ubiquitous as the barstools.
The Cavern was unique. Thinking about it, years before the fire that razed it to rubble, the place had three huge rooms — a front bar, a dance floor (actually two dance floors) and a back bar. The back bar opened onto a volleyball court, where in summer we could watch the players volley in their all-together. In winter, the court was a vacancy between the back bar and the shack. The shack had yet another bar — more intimate and the place for pick-ups.
The Cavern was just that. The walls and ceiling were tan stucco, sculptured into stalagmites. The floor, except the dance areas, was uneven and gravelly. Bruce Q., the owner and a real queer StarWars geek, was inspired by the outpost bar on Mos Eisley. I often imagined Luke Skywalker and Hans Solo drifting in from the beach in search of the Millennium Falcon. The room was hung with a variety of rubbery and plastic cave creatures. The most fascinating was a thing Bruce Q. called the Zippilin, a cross between a bat and a cat. He had it rigged on a cable and, every once in a while, the thing would go sailing over the dance floor and yap like a Zippilin, however a Zippilin yapped. Scared the crap out of new visitors. The veterans just howled.
When I pulled Matt into The Cavern, no one was dancing. No one dared, even though Carlos, the DJ, spun platters. No one dared trip over the dance floor before the bewitching hour, when Donna Summer blared over the two eight foot speakers. I waved to Teddy Fitz and to Sam and Kurt, and then presented Matt to Mother. Matt was withdrawn, but that didn’t discourage me. As the Christmas elves spread the spirit, I believed he would come to life. He was a product of a gay ghetto after all — Melrose.
Look Away Silence Page 3