She sprang to life. The lights came over her eyes. Brilliant.
“You’re thinkin’ of moving in together.”
I stopped my machinations and plopped beside her on the couch. She hit it squarely on the head, but I was hesitant to discuss it with her. Her wisdom was always so wise-ass. If she had found life’s mysteries, I wouldn’t even be here.
“I’m thinking about it, Viv. But here’s the thing. The man is devoted to me. I’ve never had such attention.”
“Not from me, you haven’t.”
“You’re just my mother. You did your one act.”
“It was painful.”
“Get over it.”
“Still, shithead, you mustn’t lose sight of what I’m seeing. Hear ya tell me that he’s attentive, but I see your ass scurrying through closet for a change of clothes. What’s wrong with this place that he shouldn’t move in with you?”
She had a point. Matt’s place was bigger, but mine was . . . familiar to me. It had become . . . well, it was home. I sighed again.
“I was thinking of giving up this place altogether. Save money.”
“Saving money’s always a good plan, but . . .” She gave me a shove. “Don’t be a little fool. There’s no guarantee that anything lasts for more than a year. This is prime property, and besides I have a key.”
“It’s always about you.”
“That’s true. And it should always be about you. So you’re packing your shit for a week’s vacation at the boyfriend’s place. So what. Until you tie the knot . . .”
“You know we can’t . . . “
“You know what I mean. Whatever you sweetie-pies do to make it binding. Until then, keep a place of your own. You’ll need a retreat. And as for saving money, cut out the smoking.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Good. Bad habit. And expensive. See, you’ve already saved money. Well, since you’re not offering me a beer, a beer you don’t have, I’ll be going.”
She kissed me, pinched my chin and glided to the door.
“Remember, shithead, it’s all about you, until it’s not.”
She was gone, but her cheap perfume aroma lingered. As ditsy as she was, it was true. Why should I give up this place? Matt wasn’t forcing me, and then there would be the merging and consolidation of stuff. Whose toaster would be tossed? Whose kitchen table would go in storage? Where would my little stash of books — Dickens and Melville and Twain and the like, go? Beside his computer books? I don’t think so. So I sighed for the twentieth time that day and resolved to leave things as they were. Although I took a resolution to insist that Matt stay at least one weekend a month at my place — near The Cavern, and all that.
3
Spring brought the crocus, the lilacs and the big ass Spring Concert at Richardson Auditorium, which stood behind the White Church on campus. Richardson was an old rotunda with all the charm of the Bastille peppered with Tiffany windows. It was created with my voice in mind, an acoustical wonder that kissed any audience with rich tones and harmonies. I was destined to sing three soli in the concert — the little one in Mozart’s Ave Verum, a catchy one in Spring is Here, a medley of Rodgers and Hart and a pathetic tearjerker in When He Left My Arms, one of those AIDS anthems that every GALA chorus were required to sing — like the obligatory red ribbon.
This concert was very special, because not only did I ace Jasper out for all three solos (Woohoo), but also Matt was bringing the Kielers to Richardson. Actually, it made me nervous, because they had never heard me sing before. I knew I’d be great, but it was like having an extra set of judges on the panel — judges whose opinion actually mattered.
“You’ll be just fine,” Matt said as he helped me with my cummerbund. Lately I had forgotten how to dress myself. We had managed to dress each other so often, I thought I might forget how to tie my shoelaces. I took to wearing loafers.
“Do my tie,” I asked.
He fumbled with it.
“You know I can’t tie this thing for all the . . .”
I kissed him.
“I had a frog in my throat this morning.”
“Only a frog?”
He laughed. I pushed him away.
“I’ll get some one else to finish the tie. My throat’s a little scratchy. I want the Ave Verum to be perfect for your Mom.
“She’ll love it.”
“As for your Dad, I hope he doesn’t think I sing just soppy numbers.”
“He’ll understand.”
“I mean that weepy last number.”
“He’s heard the weepy numbers before.”
Odd. Had the Kielers been exposed to the morbid side of GALA already? Matt shrugged.
“My Dad likes snappier numbers, true, but if you see him nodding off during your last solo, just stop, come to the edge of the stage and sing:
If I were in the land o’ cotton,
Ole times there are not forgotten.”
I chased him around the living room table until we fell on the couch. He tickled me.
“Stop it. The cummerbund snapped off again.”
“Don’t eat so much.”
I smothered him with kisses. It would be a good concert after all.
4
One nice touch to our concert was the guest appearance of the Erastes Errata choir, our Lesbian brothers in vocal virility. They pounded out the feminine sets like Rosie the Riveter in three-four time. I mention this because my friends, Leslie and Ginger, were there and after the concert, we all got together at Woolfies for some burgers and brewskies, as the straight set say. The Kielers took a shining to Ginger and Leslie, and my lesbo godmothers took a shining to sister Mary. Now, as far as I know, Mary Kieler was as straight as Meryl Streep, but with a few beers, Mary was flirting with the best of them. It raised curious possibilities in my mind. Still, when Sammy Kieler’s silly jokes had subsided, the question of summer vacations went round robin.
Mary was visiting a school friend in San Francisco, a trip that excited her. It would excite me too. I’d kill to visit San Francisco and bounce around the Castro for a week. Sammy and Louise were touring the mid-New England sights in the Berkshires, which would have sent me for a snooze. I mean, Provincetown or Ogunquit was more my speed. It then dawned on me that Matt might be taking that tour. I mean, he did so many things with Mom and Dad, including the Sunday dinners and even the Presbyterian Church at least once a month. My heart hitched. Then the baton was passed to me. Everyone gazed awaiting the response.
“I really hadn’t made plans for this year, especially with Denver coming up next year,” I said with as much conviction as I could.
I turned to Matt anxiously passing that baton.
“We’re probably going to relax at Long Branch,” Matt said, much to my relief. “Pumpkin has that apartment, which hasn’t had much use lately.”
I beamed. Then, Leslie percolated.
“Why not spend a week with us in New Birch?”
“Yes,” Ginger countered. “At the Lantanas.”
“The Lantanas?” Matt asked.
I had forgotten that they owned and ran a bed and breakfast in New Birch. I’d been there once for a weekend and it was a wonderful place.
“Lez and Ginger have a B&B,” I said.
“In New Birch,” Ginger said.
The whole table was buzzing.
“Isn’t that in Pennsylvania?” Louise asked. “I hear that it’s quite the place for antiquing.”
“And other things,” Ginger barked.
“Just across the Delaware from Libertyville,” Leslie added.
Matt’s eyes drifted from Leslie to Ginger, and then to Mary.
“Sounds delightful,” Mary said. “I’ve been to New Birch, Newt. It’s just the place for you. Bit of nightlife, a slice of daylife and relaxation.”
“Yes,” I said, suddenly aware that this neutral ground — the B&B, could be the very place to equalize the space issues. “Relaxation away from computers might be just the thing. How about it?”
“Well, we’ve never really discussed it, but it’s a possibility.”
“Bullshit,” Ginger croaked. “Possibility, nothing. Come be our guests for a week. You’ll love it.”
“It’s settled then,” Leslie said.
It wasn’t settled, but I could see the idea penetrating Matt’s mind, and it was a favorable glow. Suddenly, the summer was no longer a challenge. It was just a matter of getting vacation time to coincide with Matt’s. I could have kissed my lesbian godmothers. In fact, if I recall, I did, which must have sealed the pact, because we spoke no further about it until it became a fact.
Chapter Eleven
Bed & Breakfast
1
New Birch, Pennsylvania was an old artist’s village stretching for two miles on the banks of the Delaware River. It had all the tourist stuff, which I didn’t mind, because I’m into tourist stuff. I mean, who can’t live without a paper parasol with hand painted cranes on its hood? The shops were right up my alley, but I needed to exercise some control or next summer I’d be sitting in Long Branch while the tribe was off in the Rockies. There was a theater in New Birch that played Summer stock, although how many times can you see Catz? Crafts, homemade ice cream, glassware, tarot cards (left over from the hippie days) and restaurants by the mile. Best of all, most of the shops were gay-owned and operated. That always titillated me, because the surrounding township, Sipsboro, and the rest of the county were as conservative as Mormons. They regarded New Birch as the underbelly of their suburban Xanadu. Still, it drew the bridge and tunnel crowd, so the farmers-in-the-dell sold their corn and tomatoes and berries in season. The real estate agents had a heyday snaring the well heeled by the heel and selling them a prime piece of Pennsylvania for an inflated price.
Gay owned and operated meant that the surrounding hills on both sides of the river teamed with gay men and womyn. Many also owned a goodly slice of Libertyville, which thrived in the antiques trade. And in New Birch, left turn at the town canon, past the haunted house, a steep incline lead to the gay ghetto, an array of garden apartments — the home of the brave and pink. In their shadow, hidden in the tributary glades and near the quaint old mule canal, stood the mansions of the filthy rich queers. I once thought that I should go shopping there and be set for life. I certainly had the figure and taste for such style, but the cost was too high; and I don’t mean money. I mean my eternal soul. What a girl had to do just to spend a night in these cathouses, especially the Otterson estate, a sprawling Tara that I had been in once, but once was enough. Some of the Jersey Gay Sparrows fluttered to the Otterson estate, which was owned by a Princeton University Prof, who had other businesses to be sure. I only asked once as to what they were and their nature, and didn’t understand the answer, so I chalked it up to ignorance is bliss. Creatures like Padgett and Todd and Mortimer (who lived in the basement), fluttered around Roy Otterson and his rich cronies. I would need to be at the bottom of my luck before I went sprawling across the Professor’s threshold again.
Three gay bars. New Birch had three gay bars — they still do, although they seem to change their names and décor every three years, except The Crow. That one never seemed to change. More a restaurant and pick-up joint, the food was classy but the clientele less so — much on the distaff side. It also had an outdoor pool enclosed with tall cedar trees for the clothing optional. I liked to stand on The Crow’s verandah and gawk at the latest crop, but honestly, in many cases I wished the bathing suits were mandatory. A Motel was attached for the quick urges. I remember the first time I ate at The Crow. I was a naïve newbie then and while I waited for my date, I spied a three hundred pound naked hairy man sprawled on a bed with the windows open and the lights on. I guess it was a two for a dollar sale. It put me off food that night.
The other two bars were fun places — The Continental, which served the younger set, but had a basement dance floor and a fair menu. It constantly opened and closed, as it was mafia owned and operated — not even by the gay mafia. The bridge and tunnel crowd would vacillate between The Continental and the third bar, The Wagon Wheel, which was an even funner place — dancing, a piano bar, three lounges, a porch, a disco and a parking lot that was guaranteed to break your axles. When The Wagon Wheel was in vogue, the mafia would close The Continental, change its name, improve its fixtures and have a go at it following season. When that happened, The Wagon Wheel, which was Lesbian owned, would redo the lounge (Safari one year – leather the next), and add some new menu items. What they should have done was pave the parking lot, which could have accommodated an old Conestoga and other vintage wagons.
So Matt and I packed our bags and headed for this Mecca on the Delaware for a full week of relaxation and fun.
2
The Lantanas was a quarter of a mile north of the main drag on the Delaware side of the road, festooned with pine trees and overgrown with ivy and, true to its name, lantanas. Heck, I didn’t know what a lantana was until I saw this Bed & Breakfast. I remember asking Ginger, What the hell’s a lantana? Some sort of Lesbian light bulb? That got me a Ginger punch in the arm and a quick lesson in botany about the creeping vine that peeped through the porch’s latticework. How was I supposed to know? Unlike Ginger, who was an electrical engineer or Leslie, the lawyer, I only knew the flowers on linen patterns and ties. The place was quaint — a cottage with three stories — a parlor, dining room, kitchen and seven guest rooms and a place for the girls. We were the first guests of the season, our choice of rooms and places at the table. The table part was nothing to brag about. The Bed was good, but the Breakfast was . . . Lesbian fare — rubbery eggs, burnt toast and near sour orange juice. Matt and I would giggle throughout the service, Ginger dumping the food unceremoniously on our plates in a Mel’s Diner sort of way. Leslie would be already gone to town for her mail, her law offices being in Libertyville.
We would then retreat to the porch and feed the cats, and there were cats everywhere. I believe that every cat in New Birch hopped over the fence and waited in the tall grass for the tins to pop open, an act that Ginger did with a bit more grace than when she fed us.
“Do they have names?” Matt asked her.
“Why?” Ginger said, whistling to the gang to assault the tuna and sardine crap that waited for them. “If they did, would they call each other? All I know is that they’re better behaved than the purries that I get in here.”
“We’ll be good,” I said.
“No you won’t.” She laughed. “And we didn’t invite you here to be good. We want you to be bad — so very bad.”
Ginger was a tiger cat herself. She had had a hard life, or so Leslie told me once beyond Ginger’s earshot. Her family had disowned her when she left her husband and that after losing a child. I couldn’t picture Ginger as a housewife or even a mother. I shouldn’t talk with Viv in my saddlebag, but Ginger was so . . . butch, a perfect pitch to Leslie’s femininity. Still, Leslie was the guiding force and they were devoted to each other beyond this business holding and the Erastes Errata Choir. Ginger had difficulty holding a job, outspoken as she was, and often told her bosses which window they could jump out of and what to do with the horse that they rode in on. Leslie was financially steady and laid no requirements on her mate to be other than herself.
It was a memorable first vacation. The price was right. The setting was rustic and shopping was within a short walk. And shop we did. I bought enough bric-a-brac to keep my feather duster busy and Matt added to his boots and spurs collection. I loved the old Aquarian shop with the tarot cards and incense and hippy shit. It was directly across the street from the straight biker bar and every so often, a dark shaded leathery burly man and his Moll would drift into the shop and try on the Gothic jewelry or roughly handle the naughty tee shirts with the Harley Davidson logos. Matt wanted to get a drink in the biker bar.
“Hon,” I said, more a recommendation than a response. “They can spot a fag a mile away. We’d be pinned like butterflies before the head on your beer settled.�
��
“Where then?”
That was simple, only it was not within walking distance. It was up the hill, away from the tourist track at The Crow. That day, it was our second or third, we had already driven up to the highway and danced at The Wagon Wheel and ogled in The Continental. We had also had a narrow escape coming back in Matt’s Cherokee, the drink clouding the driving abilities. When Matt pulled into the driveway, the nameless pussies fled in every direction. So even though The Crow was a hike, we decided to huff it and, if intoxicated (ha ha, if), we wouldn’t be challenged behind the wheel.
The Crow had a quality restaurant. We lounged by the pool and watched the nudie show and chugged beers, and then had a fine steak dinner, complete with garlic mashed potatoes, a prelude of onion soup and topped it off with crème brule. It was far better than sitting at the B&B wondering what Ginger had killed for the evening meal. Dinner wasn’t actually in the deal, and she only sloshed stuff together if we hadn’t moved our asses into town for grub. Leslie generally ate out, would come in late and retire to her room — the two watching television and giggling like schoolgirls. The walls were thin, so I guess they heard us also.
In any event, after dinner at The Crow, we sat at the bar and then drifted into the lounge. This bar was known as a haven for the older set, so when youngsters (like Matt and I) drifted into the lounge, it was pocket-handkerchief night at the old pick up bar. Many senior fairies sat at attention at our entrance. The bears sharpened their claws on the nearest tree. Suddenly, I spied a young one . . . one whom I knew — but from where? It was the waiter from The Cavern — Bobby What’s-his-name . . . Anselm. He sat on one of the four sofas that dotted the room. I remember the smoke was thick that night, my eyes burning already, but gay men have lungs of steel. The place needed a good dusting and perhaps my vacuum broom, but after a vat of beer and a full belly, the only thing I could think of was sleeping. I didn’t need to play the cruising game in this opium den. I had my squeeze on my arm.
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