So when the rehearsal season rolled in for the New Jersey Gay Sparrows, I was ready. I wanted Matt to join the group, but he declared that he was a better listener than a warbler. I was disappointed, because I wanted to share this experience with him. But there were borders we couldn’t cross. He couldn’t sing and I couldn’t understand that damned computer. So I left him to his own devices on Wednesday nights, when I drove to Princeton for the thing I did best in this world — do dire battle with a bunch of singing queens for the title best little warbler in the bird cage.
3
The Presbyterian Church on Nassau Street had been standing on the Princeton University campus for as long as that campus whispered across the mid-Jersey plains. Its tall white spire lorded over the campus, a campus that I loved. I could have never thrived there as a scholar in such rarified air. However, I’m no dope. I’ve always been an avid reader, but a student? I didn’t have the chops. However, I’m an incurable romantic and Princeton, with its cerebral turrets and academic temples and scholastic lanes and gargoyles, was just the place for a romantic. I might not be able to conjugate Latin verbs or discover the formula for making pigs fly, but if I were ever turned inside out, Princeton would spring from my guts. There is nothing like early springtime in Princeton, when the men flock to the dorm houses, wearing less and less as the humidity heightened.
The New Jersey Gay Sparrows started out in a different location — an old farm house in West Windsor, somewhere hidden from public view, because when one forms a gay chorus, no one comes unless they are assured anonymity. The original sixteen members, many gone now through attrition, political battles and illness, formed a sweet bunch of tweeters called the Central Jersey Men’s Choir. The Jersey Sparrow thing didn’t get going for a while, and until our audience decided that listening to an obviously gay chorus that hid behind a bland, closeted name was a sell-out. The Gay word was in and out depending on the concert and the venue, but by the time we began rehearsing at the White Church, it was in. I always thought it a hoot that the state’s first GALA mens chorus would sprout up and take root in conservative Princeton. But there you are. We were stars to the Laura Ashley crowd, who’d line the pews flouting their newfound liberalism on their puffy blouses and Easter Parade hats. Of course, the audience was peppered with the gay community also — a reserved pew for drag queens, a contingent of bikers and here and there a coterie of collegiate chaps fanning each other with the program and evaluating the ushers’ butts.
I joined the group in full flight and claimed to be the youngest member, and indeed had the best voice. Gerry, our director, had recruited me in a bar — I believe it was The Den on karaoke night. He asked me if I read music, to which I immediately lied and said, why yes. I do all right in that area . . . now, and I immediately inflamed the jealousies of the other tenors when Gerry gave me a solo on the first night. It was that old Scottish favorite, Loch Lomond, and hon, I took the high road. I will say I was nervous at our first concert and missed my cue, which delighted that prima donna Jasper, but the audience ate it up and the rest is Gay Jersey Sparrow history.
4
“Hi, all,” I shouted coming over the threshold of the upstairs rehearsal hall. I fully expected a round of acclaim, but instead I was mauled by the Otterson crowd — Padgett and Todd.
“Who is this masked stranger?” Padgett asked.
“I hear he’s found himself a buckaroo,” Todd chortled. “We were all deciding who would take your solos this season.”
Jasper, who was always keen to that subject, nodded and sneered at me simultaneously.
“No chance of that,” I said.
The rehearsal hall was a nice size, set with three rows of folding chairs arranged in four sections — first tenor, second tenor, baritone and bass. Of course, first tenors and basses were the sparkle of the group. You had to have a fine voice to be in that league. Everything else fell in between, and sometimes baritones sang second tenor and second tenors sang baritone. How tasty pudding was that?
I espied Russ. He was a bass, which surprised everyone since his speaking voice was so Nelly.
“I’m mad at you,” he snapped, and then turned to John (who was out of drag). Then Russ marched over to me. “I said, I’m mad at you.”
“I heard you. I figured you’d be.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
I noticed that Todd and Padgett were all ears, as was the three Rons, who farted around with their empty music folders. I nodded toward the window. The hall had a small low-rise stage at the far end stacked with instruments that the church choir used during their rehearsals. (This was Princeton after all). Russ proceeded to the low-rise, but as I followed him, the director emerged from behind the piano, where he was having a tête-à-tête with Tim, our tall-drink-of-water accompanist.
“Martin,” he said. His voice was charming and his eyes sparkled.
“Gerry.”
“I’m glad you’re back. Some of the tweets said you were too busy this season to sing.”
Russ was waiting, but I needed to quash this rumor.
“No, Gerry. If I were quitting, wouldn’t I call you?”
“That’s what I told them. Here. Look at this.”
He flopped a piece of music into my hand. I glanced at Russ, who rolled his eyes. I perused the piece. Ave Verum Corpus by Mozart. It had a little solo in it, so I had to look. It was part of the classical portion of our program. We always did an assortment of church and classical works in the first half, a portion that we fondly called the Death Set. The second half were show tunes, campy numbers and GALA sanctioned pieces — touchy, feely, activist and melancholy — let my people go stuff.
“Consider the solo, will you?”
“That’s up to you.”
I could hear Jasper seething on the sidelines. However, I also espied Russ returning to John. He mouthed I’m mad at you.
“Excuse me, Gerry, I need to . . .”
“We’re starting. Tim.”
Tim smiled (he always smiled) and pounded three chords on the piano. The flock came to order — all of them. The whole assortment. And we were a collection of mixed nuts. A few scrawny crows, a wallflower or two, a whole belly brigade (Ron was so fat, when he sang, his mouth disappeared into his chins). We had butch boys, and drag queens, the talented, the tone deaf and buff and the bodily odor challenged. We even had a manic-depressive music librarian — Brian, and you hoped when he handed you your music that the medication had settled, otherwise you might get three sets of the same piece. Twenty-seven New Jersey Gay Sparrows, and here and there a chicken hawk. The only thing we were missing was a straight man. We did have one when we started out, they tell me. He hadn’t realized that the Central Jersey Men’s Choir was that way. He actually stuck it out to the first concert, they say, but I guess his girlfriend objected. Some people are so insecure.
“On your feet, ladies,” Gerry said.
No speech. No welcome back or rules and regulations. He just pointed to Tim, and we naturally applauded the man for his thankless work.
“Hands at your sides and stretch. And stretch and stretch. Now to your right and to your left.”
It was funny watching the belly brigade do these, but without the stretching, our diaphragms would be just so much dead skin in the lung vat. After the stretches, we went through a series of breathing exercises — huffs and puffs, and lip farts and the ever-popular radiator shush. Then came humming and scales and harmonizing, and then a small lecture on enunciation.
“Remember your h’s, ladies. It’s when, not wen. A wen is . . .”
Gregg paused and pointed at us.
“A sebaceous cist,” we caroled in unison.
“Exactly, and since we will have some Latin this season, its not eXcelsior, but eGGcelsior.”
Finally, we sat and sight-read the entire program. It sounded like a gaggle of geese instead of a twittering of sparrows, but it was fine. It settled my heart. After hours of rehearsing there is nothing
like the sound of a men’s choir, fully balanced and blended. However, this first go-through was . . . was music to my ears. Other rehearsals would belabor every measure. We would need to stop and teach the second tenors their parts, pounding out the lines on the piano. Second tenors were . . . well, second tenors. But the first rehearsal was anything goes. We were divine individuals, each trying to embrace the music on our own terms. The concert would require us to sacrifice our souls to performance — to the sacred blend of voices. But that first run-through was always the best.
5
At the break, which was always soda and cookies, I tried to buttonhole Russ, but he surrounded himself with Padgett and Todd, a sure deterrent to my company. Todd Moorehouse was a constant self-server and Padgett was his foil. Apart they gave me a headache. Together they gave me a migraine. I needed to wait until the rehearsal’s end to lasso Russ, and even then, I had to catch up with him. I should have just let him go, but he wanted me to chase him. He was parading down the dark driveway toward Nassau Street, when he finally turned.
“I’m mad at you, you know.”
“Could have fooled me, bitch,” I said.
I was mad at him now. He was true to form, but what a pain in the ass.
“How’s domestic life?”
“What the hell are talking about?”
“Your cowboy.”
“He’s not my cowboy. He’s my . . . my lover . . . my companion.”
“Excuse me. I thought that was one and the same.”
I was furious now. Russ couldn’t have been more vicious if he had bitten my hand.
“What’s with you? I thought we were friends. I thought you’d be happy if I met someone.”
“I would be, if you had.”
“What d’ya mean by that?”
“I mean, he’s your Christmas fuck. Somehow, he’s stuck to your shoe, unlike the others. But he’ll be scraped off sooner or later, and you’ll be a mess. Just don’t come crying to me.”
I trembled. I pushed him into the hedges, and fortunately the rest of the Sparrows had flown or we’d be a gossip item from the Delaware to the Hudson. He recovered and flew at me, but I stepped aside. He tripped, falling flat on his nose. Gravel didn’t suit him.
Suddenly, I regretted this. Friendships are not supposed to end with pushes and punches. I hunkered down.
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Go away.”
“Russ. I don’t know why you’re acting like this. Matt is wonderful and I think I . . . I think I . . . I love him.”
I was as stunned as Russ was. It was the first time I had said it aloud and it probably should have been said to Matt, but a try out wasn’t a bad notion.
“Are you sure, hon?” Russ whimpered.
“I am.”
Was I really, but it sounded so like a resolution, I said it again.
“I am.”
Russ was on his knees now, hugging me, crying like the sissy he was, and not in his bass voice. It was good to have a friend. I wasn’t ready for this friendship to end. However, I remember in the lamplight in the shadow of the White Church, the realization that I was actually in love and the world was as promising as singing the music for the first time.
Chapter Ten
A Matter of Space
1
Life was always about me, even when Viv tried to convince me that she was at the core. This happens when you fend for yourself. You get to think that other people are just accessories to the vacuum broom. However, now that I had made that pronouncement to Russ about my feelings for Matt, I felt more the satellite than the planet. It took me another two weeks to say as much to Matt. I had planned to murmur it in bed, post-passion or over a glass of wine and turkey chili, but as it turned out, it happened during our first argument. It was another Wednesday night and I took an hour off from work to get a pair of potpies going and a nice spinach salad. It was rushed, as it was rehearsal night. Matt was late, and not your ten minutes after five late, but your quarter after six late. He came in with little notion that he was nothing but on time.
“It’s cold,” I barked.
“It still smells nice, Pumpkin.”
He went to kiss me, but I averted him.
“You’re late, and you know that I have rehearsal tonight.”
“Well, I got stuck.”
I pouted and fretted. I was once again the planet and this moon was gibbous in my eyes now. I rattled the plate and dumped his potpie in the center. It stuck to the pie tin and clumped in a mess.
“It looks like shit,” I snapped.
He hugged me, but I squirmed out.
“I can’t help it when we’re on a deadline,” he explained, or tried to explain.
“You could have called.”
“I didn’t know that you were going to all the trouble of baking a frozen dinner.”
Now I was miffed. Beyond miffed. He could whip up his own dinner and find dessert in the dark with his own manipulation. I grabbed my plate, which I had barely touched, but as I snapped it up, the remnants of my potpie slipped off onto the floor. In my effort to catch it, the plate went crashing.
“Shit!” I cried. “Now look what you made me do.”
I bent down for the pieces and as I mushed my hand in congealed gravy and glass, I went to pieces.
“Leave it be, Pumpkin. I take care of it. You’ll be late for rehearsal.”
He lifted me into his arms. I was so mad I could spit, and yet I knew it wasn’t his fault. Deep down the voices told me that I was slipping. My world was changing. He didn’t need potpies, but I needed to make them . . . or at least bake the ones Clarence Birdseye prepared.
“You could have called,” I murmured.
“I could have,” he said. “But I didn’t think to.”
“You should have,” I said. “I’m trying.”
“I know. I appreciate it.”
Then it came out.
“I love you, you know.”
It sounded different from the resolution beneath the White Church’s spire. It had a twinge of desperation in it. Still, it reached inside and turned me into a cringing child. Matt pressed me hard into his arms. I heard him weeping now. I supposed he had heard someone else tell him that they loved him, and that would be the ghost of Luis. Still, if my admission touched that specter, it was fine with me. Matt wasn’t pushing me away.
I expected after that, we would have the long overdue next steps conversation — the what does it all mean type of thing, but he just cleaned up the mess and I went to rehearsal — reluctantly. It wasn’t until later that night, when we shared the quiet twilight before sleep that he touched my hand, lacing his fingers in mine.
“Pumpkin,” he said. “I loved you the minute I set eyes on you. I’m glad you’ve finally come around.”
We became twin stars then, forever in each other’s orbit.
2
I was spending so much time at Matt’s place that I wondered why I rented my little hacienda by the sea. In fact, I could get a break and grow my little GALA Denver fund, if I had just moved in with him. I would pay my share of rent and expenses, but it would be far cheaper. I asked Russ about it, but he just gave me a raspberry and walked away. That was an answer — a biased answer, but an answer nonetheless. I was on the fence and wanted to broach the issue with Matt. However, I knew he would just shrug and let me move in. In fact, he would insist on me living there free, and that would be unacceptable. No matter how many freeloaders I had had on my doorstep, I was not about to become one. Still, if I had a plan in place, something with a spreadsheet and a contract, I could hold my own. The thought of having a contract was too much like marriage for me, but after all, wasn’t that the only purpose for marriage? If the State of New Jersey ever let gay folk marry, I think it would be all about contracts. But I wouldn’t worry about that. This country would elect an African American President first before it ever considered gay marriage. A long shot at best.
Then my answer came from the least
expected place. I shouldn’t say the least, because deep in my soul — where the voices lingered and harassed, I knew Viv would see the practicality of the matter. She had popped over unannounced one evening when I was home switching out clothes.
“You’re home, shithead,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“The last three times I dropped in, you weren’t, but you wouldn’t know that would you?”
“Sorry.”
She was wearing a red sweater and the tightest pair of toreador pants I had ever seen. Thin as she was, I thought she’d split them wide open when she sat.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “I mean, I do come by to see you, but if you’re gonna be out, at least keep the fridge stocked. The last time all you had was moldy yogurt and some leftover Chinx.”
“Sorry.”
I was only half listening to her. She could come and go as she pleased. She could even spend the night here — entertain, if she promised to change the linen, but at that moment, I was picking through a week’s worth of clothing. While I was bent over my line-up of shoes, Viv pinched my ass and giggled.
“Stop that,” I said, not unkindly. She was playful and sober, a rare combination.
“So this thing with this guy . . . what’s his name?”
“Matt.”
“Matt. It’s serious. Are you gonna have one of those gay beach celebrations this summer? I’ll come. You know that if you’re servin’, I’m drinkin’.”
“Yes,” I sighed. “It’s serious. But . . .”
“But what?”
She scrunched up on the couch, her chin on her knees. Those pants were destined to split. I was sure of it.
“Well, you see what I’m going through.”
“You’re packin’. Big deal.”
“Yes, I pack every week. And I’m getting tired of it.”
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