Look Away Silence

by Edward C. Patterson

  Just think of it. Seven thousand gays and lesbians invading the mile high city and on the same week as the Gay Rodeo, which swelled the queer population to twelve thousand visitors. How many were with the home team, who could guess? And it was Gay Pride month to boot and we were all expected to march in Denver’s Gay Pride Parade, especially now, because there was an insidious referendum on the State’s voting slate called Proposition 2, which, if passed, would make it illegal for gay and lesbian specific legislation to be presented for consideration to either house of the great State of Colorado.

  Colorado was a schizophrenic state when it came to gay rights, so I learned. Desmond clearly explained this to us.

  “Here in Denver, there are many gay friendly folk. Even more so in Boulder, where the University is persuasive. Now I tell you this. There is this organeyezation called the Coloradoe Family Values Association that believes that gay folk just shouldn’t breathe free on this here planet. Or at least in the free State of Coloradoe. Theyz a powerful bunch, they are. They tout their bullshit in Coloradoe Springs and Pueblo, our very own Bible belt. Theyz most influential and if theyz allowed to get their way, gay folk be set back to the dark ages.”

  We were expected to march. In fact, I got the impression that the marching was regarded more important than the singing and, frankly, that didn’t set well with me. Matt didn’t express an opinion one way or another. I mean, we didn’t vote in Colorado. I wasn’t even registered to vote in New Jersey, which got me in deep shit with Leslie. There was always something she wanted me to support. I guess I was born with the laundry gene and not the political activist gene. I was in Colorado to sing — to warble in Cree in that big ass auditorium — and it was huge. Lifting my fist in the air and shouting to the mountains for pink freedom was the furthest thing from my mind. At least there would be a big party after the Parade.

  Matt and I squeezed into the third balcony in Boettcher Auditorium. It was one of three venues separated by a grand promenade. There was a smaller hall called Hoyne Buell (we just called it Buell) and a performance space call Ricketson, which we used for rehearsal. Each chorus would sing their set first in Boettcher, and then in Buell. There were no prizes. This was not a competition. It couldn’t be. The big choruses — Turtle Creek, Seattle, New York City and San Francisco were two hundred member’s strong each. Some choruses were something more than a quartet, so it was a pride thing. You did your best with what you had, although when the Denver Womyn Chorus opened the ceremonies, my heart stopped still. What a gorgeous sound.

  “Am I hearing this right?” Matt muttered. “They’re like angels.”

  “They’re lesbians,” I said. “I think those Family Values ding dongs would dispute the wings.”

  There were a few speeches and a welcome from the Mayor of Denver and . . . Governor Romer, who invited us to watch the fourth of July fireworks with him on the banks of the Platte, which was that muddy expanse that ran by our hotel. We had a surprise guest, the composer John Corigliano, who was hosting a performance of a Symphony of Remembrance. I was thrilled that he was there because I had performed his Fern Hill when I was in high school. I wished I had my sheet music and get a signature. It would begin my autograph collection. I didn’t even know he was gay, but we’re everywhere — especially on the stage.

  The evening ended with a selection from probably the best GALA Chorus of them all — The Turtle Creek Chorale, a two hundred member choir from Dallas. I swooned into Matt’s arms at the power of their blending. He thought I would fall from our high perch in the third balcony.

  It was a wonderful beginning to this long anticipated trip and I was ready for an adult beverage and the bar tour. However, Matt looked washed out. That jet lag can be a bruiser, so we hopped on the bus back to the hotel, and sang our own duet — snoring in two off keys until the sun arose the next morning over that mud flat called the Platte.

  2

  I let Matt sleep in the next day. I had rehearsal, and it was none too pretty. The Cree number was fine, but our fearless leader sprung a new number on us, Fine Days and Petticoats, a campy piece that just didn’t fit in with our other pieces. He thought it would show off the versatility of the Sparrows. Some agreed, but most of us greeted the addition with hostility. It was too late to give us a new piece and to ask that it be memorized. We generally performed with sheet music, but the larger choruses were off the written page. So it was understood from the outset that we would need to memorize every piece. Fine. However, to give us a new piece, and a campy one at that, with hand movements and a few chorus line kicks, was unreasonable.

  Our director did exactly what any high-strung artist would do under the circumstance. He walked out, leaving Tim, the accompanist in charge to lead us toward our performance date, which was in the second week. As it turned out, peace prevailed. Another well-known number was trotted out — one of the AIDS thingies that probably would be sung fifteen or more times by the GALA choruses during the festival. One of the Rons persuaded our maestro to agree, because our director had the hots for this particular Ron. Soon they were inseparable and we proceeded unabated. Oh, the politics of art.

  Matt joined me for lunch and we decided that we would limit our attendance of the choral performances to a just few key ones.

  “Pumpkin, I love the voices, but not for fourteen days in a row.”

  So we pinpointed a few performances — Turtle Creek, of course, the New York City and Seattle, and managed to get a ticket for the Corigliano memorial piece. Matt was a planner, but I had asked him to set that aside here. Otherwise I would be on a schedule all day and then on one all night. We had daily rehearsal until noon, except on the Wednesday of the second week, the day before our performances. Therefore, we earmarked a car rental and a trip up to the Rockies on that day. It would be our little vacation of vacations and would be interesting as we were sharing the rental with Russ, Padgett and Tim. (Russ had lassoed Tim. Our accompanist was tall, and Russ liked the big drinks of water).

  Evenings were spent bar hopping. Denver had many and some fine restaurants too. There was even a place that served rattlesnake and buffalo chops. Not for me, honey, but Matt devoured them up. He was feeling better — getting his land legs. With the Rodeo in town, I expected we would go to a dust up, but it never happened. We were just too busy. However, there were cowboys everywhere and they were seeking buckaroo broncos. My man’s cowboy hat was a magnet, the yippykayays tripping by him in full cruise mode in every gay establishment in town. I was proud of him. He was civil, tipped his hat and then flashed his wedding ring. That usually bought us a round and a shooting-the-breeze session before the wrangler moved on to the next corral.

  One evening we returned to the hotel to see two cowboys locked in a lip embrace in the lobby. It was shocking — not to us, but there was an Hispanic Christian youth convention at the hotel, and there was more than one flurry of maricones uttered from parental lips. However, this display brought on a harangue from one mamacita, who chastised the couple publicly. When the cowboys disengaged, I was amused to see that one of them was our very own Brian, the Librarian. While his pardner cowered to the wagging parental finger, Brian puffed his chest.

  “Haven’t you ever seen The Midnight Cowboy?” he asked in his Spartan choppy voice. “I suggest you rent it tonight and give me a report in the morning.”

  The woman was speechless. Her mouth carped open. The lobby froze like the ballet scene from An American in Paris. I believe we were more shocked in our recognition that cowboys making out in public were less dangerous than lighting the fuse of our bi-polar music librarian. The woman retreated, and so did the other cowboy. No amount of smooching was worth this. Perhaps the mamacita did him a favor.

  3

  The Denver Gay Pride Parade was set for Saturday, which I thought was unusual as most Gay Pride Parades were on Sundays. I had marched in a couple in my day. New Jersey had its annual Pride event in Asbury Park, because our political machine was dominated by the lesbian contingent and A
sbury Park is Lesbo Haven. The New Jersey Parade has always been a small affair, marching in organizational units through the residential areas, passed the Faggots Go to Hell banners on the sidelines. Then we needed to traipse within view of Ocean Grove, a religious right enclave that never failed to shun us with banners draped over the embankments across the tidal basin. Then on to the boardwalk and our festival site — weenies, burgers, booth after booth of every kind of gay organization and their ware. Typical stuff. Then a subset of the Jersey Sparrows would stand on the narrow track stage and warble a few tunes from our last concert.

  Of course, I also marched in the New York Gay Pride Parade. Now that’s the big one with nearly two million people showing up — New York’s largest and grandest parade running the full length of Fifth Avenue right down to Washington Square Park. None of this Macy’s terminal business. It was huge and wild and safe. It had more topless womyn and more bottomless men that a Roman orgy under Caracalla. We also had a better class of bigot. They would line the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and turn their backs on us. I suspect they sneaked some mirrors into their group to get a better view of the many cracked moons that saluted them. There was a memorial minute of silence, when the cacophony fell suddenly and died away to nothing, the only time that silence overwhelmed Manhattan Island. The after parties were many, crowded and lasted long past midnight. The fireworks over the Hudson were brilliant and the Empire State Building was lit pink. It was an odd feeling attending New York’s Gay Pride Parade. The whole world seemed gay and you were in the spirit of the majority. You needed to remember to cruise back to reality when the sun came up.

  Now Denver’s was somewhere between the two. We congregated in Breckenridge Park, unfurling our banners. With one hundred and ten choruses in the parade, we would swell the event by two thirds. It was a simple affair. There were no marching bands — no dancing Dorothys or contingencies of gay Police, Fireman or danseurs. Just local organizations and one hundred and ten GALA Choruses. Who needed bands? We would all sing numbers from our concert along the route. Most of those who lined it wouldn’t be attending the concerts anyway. So there were no spoilers.

  “Martin,” came a husky cry.

  I turned. We had found them. The Erastes Errata.

  “Ginger,” I cried.

  Soon Leslie was beside her, sporting the biggest Vote No on Proposition 2 sign I had seen thus far.

  “I thought you guys never made it,” I said. “Matt, look who’s here.”

  Matt was preoccupied by a bevy of topless musclemen, a gay body building class that rippled under the morning sun. I didn’t blame him for looking. They were nice eye candy and would, evidently, be the group directly in front of our contingent. Matt greeted the girls with a hug.

  “Where’ve been hiding for a week?”

  “I saw you guys on the schedule, but wondered . . .”

  “They stuck us in the burbs,” Leslie said.

  “In Aurora,” Ginger barked. “It’s so fucking far from Boettcher and the nightlife, I’ve a good mind to complain.”

  “That’s all you’ve done since we’ve arrived.”

  “Sorry if I’m not so willing to lie down and take it.”

  “She’s in a mood.”

  “Don’t you say it,” Ginger said, “or I’ll hit you over the head with that big fucking sign.”

  “Now, now ladies,” I said. “You’re spoiling the reunion.”

  “I don’t know why we need to march in this parade, anyway,” Ginger said.

  “To support the good gay citizens of Colorado,” Matt replied.

  “A lot of good that’ll do,” Leslie said. “Ginger’s right. They’ve become complacent.”

  Now I was surprised. Leslie was rarely critical of any gay political initiative.

  “How can it hurt?” I snapped, deciding that it was time to line up behind the gym bunnies and boogie on down the avenue.

  “It can’t hurt,” Leslie said. “But the Gay Coalition has overestimated their support and underestimated the Colorado Springs denizens. They’ve become complacent.”

  “So let’s just go for brunch and some drinks,” Ginger suggested.

  Leslie crossed her eyes and sighed.

  “No. I believe we must all go down with the ship.”

  “See you later, fellas,” Ginger said. However, she didn’t high tail it out of the park, but returned to the ranks of the Erastes Errata.

  “I don’t know why I put up with her,” Leslie said.

  “Sure you do,” I said.

  Matt looped me through my arm.

  “We all must stick together,” he said. “No matter what.”

  Leslie smiled, and then frowned, her brow curling. She placed her hand on Matt’s cheek, and then sniffed.

  “No matter what,” she said.

  So we marched down the avenue — singing, chanting, and waving our banners and placards. We sang on the steps of City Hall. We took over the civic park with a festival, merry and gay. However, in the end, Leslie was right. When the voters assembled in August, they voted for Proposition 2, disenfranchising the gay citizens of Coloradoe and, although it was overturned as unconstitutional a year later, we all learned a lesson. Take nothing for granted and that Leslie is generally right, drat the woman.

  Chapter Three

  Remembrance

  1

  I must admit a terrible truth. No matter how many times I’ve had my heart broken and plummeted down into the depths of depression, I was never traumatized to the point where I didn’t think that it could be remedied by a nice shopping spree. Call me shallow, or perhaps naïve. Whenever I wept into Viv’s shoulder and she patted my head like her pet dog, whispering You did it again, shithead. You did it again, I never thought beyond my own fleeting heartbreak. It was like eating bad Chinese food. You gagged, threw up and then took a Bromo-seltzer or the pink crap. All would be good in the morning. Therefore, it was hard for me to fathom the depths of Matt’s heartbreak for Luis. I did what I did best — put it aside.

  Let’s not analyze this. It is what it is and the pink crap will make it go away. Either that or a quick romp through the linen department.

  I mention this because, after the Parade was behind us, the Remembrance concert loomed. I looked forward to it, because I love the Corigliano sound, especially with the composer on the podium, conducting. According to the promotional material, the Seattle Gay Men’s Chorus would be an integral part of the piece. So as Sunday morning progressed, I attended to some sink laundry — socks and delicates. However, Matt mooned about the room, gazing out the window at the little muddy river that flowed between the new stadium and us. I supposed he was missing his computer. This was the longest time he had been separated from the electronic beasts since last summer, and that was only for a week. At least I had something to wash, wring and drape over the shower bar.

  “Matt,” I asked, hugging him from behind. “Are you still suffering from jet-lag?”

  “No, Pumpkin,” he said. “I was just trying to decide whether I want to stay in today.”

  “Tired from the Parade?”

  We had been out late, shuffling from the karaoke bar to the western bar to the collegiate hangout. We drank a lot and all three places were suffocating, hot and smoky. Padgett and Todd had a fight. Not a fist fight, although that would have been a diversion. Padgett had staked out his territory at the collegiate bar, where a host of twinks watered like gazelles at an oasis. Padgett had his eye on a tenor from Taos, New Mexico, who was sprouting more than his share of cactus. It seems that just as Padgett went in for the kill, Todd intervene with a story about his vacation to Sedona. Spirit cleansing this and Historical significance that. It sufficiently engaged the twink, who probably missed his stretch of dessert. Padgett glared at Todd with all the grace of a puma about to spring. We all watched this action and knew that when the New Mexican abandoned Todd, which he inevitably would (everyone else had), that Padgett would launch into a tirade that we’d remember for the next tw
o seasons.

  “You and your travel logs,” Padgett spit.

  “You should get out more,” Todd responded.

  “I’m out now, or have you missed that fact.”

  “I miss nothing, dear.”

  “Don’t dear me, you bitch. You saw my action. Don’t deny it.”

  “I deny nothing.”

  That’s when the drink flew, baptizing Todd Moorehouse with some sticky concoction that included peppermint schnapps. Todd growled. Padgett seethed. We all moved closer, because the floorshow was about to begin. It was classic, Todd promenading around the dance floor in a queenly circle followed by a haranguing Padgett. This continued until Todd reached his own drink and returned the splash, this time in Padgett’s face.

  “You’ve blinded me.”

  “Grow up,” Todd said. “It’s only alcohol. It’s good for your eyes.”

  Padgett stretched to his full height, a tornado about to be unleashed. However, the tenor from Taos intervened. He took Padgett’s hand, dragging him onto the dance floor. There Padgett did a chicken dance, constantly glaring at Todd, who spit bullets from the sideline, babbling about cretins and ignorant yokels. Little did he know, he was insulting most of the yokels around him. It was quite a floorshow.

  2

  “No, the Parade was fine,” Matt said. “Liked it, in fact. And those ditzy hyenas at the bar last night were worth the trip. Naw. I’m worried about today’s concert.”

  I figured as much, but had avoided that suggestion.

  “It’s just music,” I said.

  I thought to acquiesce and let him stay here. However, this trip was principally about me, even though I was committed to this man. Viv had taught me how to throw guilt with skill