As I Lay Frying

by Fay Jacobs

  Over the succeeding days I watched TV until I could no longer stand to see those incessant reruns of the planes diving into the skyscrapers and people running, like Indiana Jones, from the ball of billowing black smoke chasing them.

  By Friday, I had to be in an Annapolis recording studio preparing the music for a show I’m rehearsing. By happenstance it showcases the music of the 1940s, including the inspiring tunes of World War II. Both the pianist and I had tears rolling down our faces as he played The White Cliffs of Dover followed by strains of Rule Britannia. The London bitz wasn’t just “over there” anymore.

  On Saturday, our trio of performers rehearsed the show in one members’ living room. The gorgeous afternoon, prompting wide open windows to savor this first crisp fall day, sent our sentimental journey of Glenn Miller’s In the Mood wafting all over the neighborhood.

  When we got to our first act finale, and the second verse of God Bless America, I glanced out the window and saw that the man across the street had stopped mowing his lawn, and stood, head bowed and listening. It took my breath away. Fortunately, next up was the Andrews Sisters’ music and we could be silly again.

  As Bonnie and I drove back to Rehoboth on Sunday night, along roads dotted with American flags flying from homes, businesses and vehicles, I was moved by the number of signs announcing prayers for the victims and the simple message “God Bless America.”

  More than once, radio commentators talked about the coming together of all Americans in this crisis—we were no longer Democrat or Republican, gay or straight, black or white—we were Americans.

  Back at my computer, sadness turned to fury when my friend Kathy sent me an e-mail. “Fay—Like most of us, I had wondered what prompted the attack on the World Trade Towers. But after reading this I finally understand. Turns out it’s our fault (or yours, but I’m counting myself in with the Pagans).—K”

  She attached a September 15 article by Dan Thomasson of the Scripps Howard News Service.

  “WASHINGTON—One religious fanatic is pretty much like another when it comes to using the Bible or the Koran to justify the most unimaginable barbarisms. If there was much doubt about this, two of America’s champion evangelical zealots— Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson—put it to rest with an extraordinary example of insensitivity and bad taste.

  Both voiced the belief that the deaths of thousands of Americans at the hands of terrorists was inspired by God as a way of getting even with those who condone feminism, homosexuality, abortion rights and any number of civil liberties the two have no use for.

  “God continues to lift the curtain and allow the enemies of America to give us probably what we deserve,” Falwell said during a television appearance on Robertson’s 700 Club, a Christian Broadcast Network showcase of right-wing religious dogma with an audience of millions.

  “The abortionists have got to bear some burden for this because God will not be mocked,” he was quoted as saying. “I really believe that the pagans and the abortionists and the feminists and the gays and lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle...all of them who have tried to secularize American—I point the finger in their face and say, ‘You helped this happen.’”

  Omigod. I stared at the vicious words of Falwell and Robertson and wanted to scream.

  I looked at Friday’s Washington Blade. The front page announced that among the terrorist’s victims was David Charlebois, the openly gay co-pilot of American Airlines Flight 77 and businessman Mark Bingham, who may have been among the men who overpowered the hijackers on the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania.

  In addition, Father Mychal Judge, the gay chaplain of the New York Fire Department died in the rubble of the World Trade Towers, as well as two gay men and their adopted child who were aboard one of the hijacked planes.

  As details filter out, it’s clear that there were gay heroes and gay victims, as well as feminists, pro-choice advocates and any number of so-called pagans with secular views among the firefighters, police officers, health care workers, and, of course, hundreds of hardworking people who were able to flee the towers…and those who are still entombed there.

  But it certainly didn’t matter on September 11 whether they were gay or not or what lifestyle views they held. They were Americans, as we all are now, no matter how the despicable Falwell and Robertson want to impugn and splinter us.

  So it’s a week later. And just like the stock market, government, schools, and outlet malls, we all have to absorb the shock and, considering ourselves fortunate, return to our lives—shaken, profoundly sad, and more worried perhaps, but back to the business of living.

  I realized this when, after days of watching the tragic stories on TV, something made me laugh. A good belly laugh. And though I felt guilty having a side-splitting I-gotta-pee laugh even as Peter Jennings was somberly droning on, I realized that sooner or later we have to stop obsessing about the lunatic terrorists and get back to our garden variety lunatics.

  But how, when everything else seems awfully trivial? I had started writing a column on September 9. Between Congressman Gary Condit and the missing intern, and Anne Heche, ex girlfriend to Ellen DeGeneres, going certifiably nuts in the desert, I had plenty of material. I’ll get to it next time. For now, God Bless us all, everyone.

  October 2001

  ANSWERING THE CALL

  In answering our nation’s call to go back about our business after Sept. 11, Bonnie and I did our best by land and sea.

  As former power boaters, we’re slightly shocked to find ourselves sailors now. The call of the waves beckoned to Bonnie when a new acquaintance asked her to go sailing on a rented catamaran. She loved it, and now we’re really in cold water.

  Mirroring our community’s reputation for instant pairing off (“What’s a lesbian bring on a second date? A U-Haul”), we bought a boat with our new friends on our second sailing date.

  Said boat is a two-decade old Hobie 16, which, to my cabin cruiser enthusiast’s eye isn’t even a boat. It’s two canoes held together by a trampoline. Picture Tom Hanks in Castaway. And it has an enormous mast and boom just waiting to make inadvertent contact with my head when the wind changes. But my girlfriend loves it.

  Bonnie and her new co-captain set out for their first sail on a gorgeous September day. “Okay, girls,” I said,”you’d better really enjoy this day because you know what they say: the two best days in a boater’s life are the day you buy it and the day you sell it.”

  Punishment for that quip won me an invitation aboard. “Come on,” Bonnie said to me, and her co-captain’s equally reluctant partner, “the four of us should really take the first voyage together.”

  So our quartet climbed aboard this tiny raft with a sail and set out, in a whoosh of wind, across Rehoboth Bay. Have you ever been on a Hobie? The damn thing travels like a bat out of hell. I was so surprised by the speed of the craft, it took me a few minutes to realize that not only didn’t the thing have an engine, but our captains courageous didn’t even have an oar on board for emergencies. If the wind died we’d be up Love Creek without a paddle.

  And it’s a good thing the water was warm after a long hot summer. The canvas raft we indelicately sprawled across had water spouts spurting through its middle like old faithful. My god, the thing was a 16 foot bidet. We were a traveling wet T-shirt contest.

  Every few minutes our captains would tell their intrepid passengers to shift positions lest we be swept overboard by the boom. Ah, memories of my being sent to the bow on our former boat-home to help raise the engine off a sand bar. My life as ballast, part two.

  As we sailed along, enjoying the gorgeous weather and trying to normalize our lives, I can’t say we weren’t a little jumpy at the sound of aircraft overhead and helicopters buzzing the beach. Were they just normal training flights from Dover and typical Coast Guard flyovers?

  We beached our craft, ending our maiden voyage with success, and hurried back to our lives. Over at the Art League, that Stage Door Canteen revue
I was directing turned out to be an emotional experience. Opening night coincided with the day the U.S. launched air strikes against Afghanistan.

  When the performers closed the first act with God Bless America, half the cast and most of the audience couldn’t keep tears from rolling down their cheeks. What followed, was a spontaneous sing-a-long. It was the most emotional, memorable theatrical moment I ever experienced.

  Back at the 24-hour news stations, we heard New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani encouraging tourists to flock to the Big Apple to help New York’s damaged economy. Now there was a Yankee Doodle Dandy idea.

  Actually, we’d had theatre tickets for the following weekend for some time, but the idea that we’d be doing our patriotic duty by seeing shows, eating pastrami, and shopping made me positively giddy.

  On our way up the Jersey Turnpike, where you would have seen the Twin Towers appear in the distance, a strange quiet overtook us. We couldn’t fathom that they were missing.

  We gazed to the right as we entered the Lincoln Tunnel and noticed the Empire State Building, shining in the afternoon sun, once again the tallest structure in town. It looked magnificent. But downtown, there was a murky, cloudy haze over the Wall Street area, and we couldn’t bear to look at the empty skyline.

  Out of the tunnel and onto Broadway however, it was clear that the Mayor and citizens of New York were going on with the show. Hastily posted signs shouted “I love NY Theatre,” “Thank You Mayor Giuliani from the grateful citizens of New York,” and “God Bless America.” John Lennon’s “Imagine all the people living in peace” was posted in two story letters.

  At the very moment we ventured from our car to the street, a gathering of hundreds of Broadway celebrities stood right in front of us making a commercial to encourage folks to come to New York. Performers, police, cabbies, and tourists melded into one big family. It gave us goosebumps.

  Determined to do our bit for America, Bonnie and I took full advantage of the plentiful half-price tickets, saw three shows, dined at the Stage Deli and gleefully shopped ‘til we dropped— all to help the city get back on its feet, of course.

  We saw a production of Kiss Me Kate and cheered the cast that took a 25 percent pay cut just to keep the show alive, and then donated another 25 percent of their salary to a fund for the WTC victims. At the play The Allergist’s Wife, Valerie Harper spoke directly to the audience at the curtain call, humbly thanking us for coming to the show.

  On Sunday, we dined with a friend who’d been helping cater food to the rescue workers and families at Ground Zero downtown. Her heartbreaking stories brought the horror back loud and clear, but also gave us a second-hand glimpse into the heroism, compassion, and awesome generosity of people coming together in a crisis.

  All the way home to Delaware we talked about the enormity of the New York tragedy and the bounty of generosity it unleashed. Right here in Rehoboth, the most magnificent outpouring of charity produced several awesome events.

  Of course, three weeks into the aftermath of September 11, crass commercialism and little ironies are creeping back into our lives. I love the rampant flag-flying and patriotism, but I really wouldn’t think badly of a business that had to take down their patriotic message and go back to regular advertising. As it is, we’re seeing a lot of muddled “God Bless America Try our New Chicken Sandwich.” Or “United We Stand Free Sundaes with Every Fajita.”

  God Bless America, land that I love.

  March 2002

  UNDERGROUND RAILROAD

  “Do you want to take a ride up towards Wilmington, have some dinner and, uh, deliver some cats?” Until the cats part it sounded appealing.

  Somehow my spouse had been recruited to save four cats and a dog from death row at our local shelter by transporting them to an animal rescue volunteer, who would then place them in loving homes.

  Ah, animal rescue. I may have sold my pick-up, but I can keep my lesbian club card current with animal rescue credits.

  “Well, where are we taking them?” I asked, realizing my question implied consent.

  “Up near the Delaware Memorial Bridge,” she said. The word “near” might have been a red flag.

  “Okay. But do you know exactly who we are meeting, where and when?”

  “Sure.”

  I shoulda asked more questions.

  Like lion tamers, we stuffed four squirming, snarling, hissing felines into two small cat carriers and put them into our Subaru Outback (animal rescue + owning a Subaru = extra Lezzie club points).

  Whitey, the blind terrier, was placed in a slightly larger cage. I met Whitey when Bonnie lifted him out of his crate so I could line it with one of our large beach towels. He emitted a bloodcurdling scream along with a stream of poop pellets he’d doubtless been saving up since Thanksgiving.

  As I leapt back to avoid the flying BMs I got a good look at the dog—at least I think it was a dog. Is there a muskrat terrier? They must have unplugged his tail from an electric socket to bring him to us. Every shaggy hair on his body stood at attention.

  Once we hosed the driveway and got ugly Whitey back in his crate, we headed up Route One. From the cargo hold came a series of low, rumbling growls, then random spitting, which led to a hiss, then another, followed by a scream, reaching a crescendo with an ear-splitting screech fest. I haven’t heard such a good cat fight since Crystal and Alexis slugged it out on Dynasty. Finally, it got so bad I let out an Alfred Hitchcock scream myself just to startle them all and regain some control. Luckily, Bonnie didn’t drive off into a ditch.

  So the meow mix tried another tactic. On a feline count of ten they sent bodily fluids out of every orifice they owned. My god, they were peeing and coughing up hairballs in unison back there. Just to breathe, I wound up hanging my head out the window like a cocker spaniel.

  With our ears turning to icicles, our traveling menagerie was still just twenty minutes up the road. I asked Bonnie exactly where in Wilmington we were going and it turned out we were going to New Jersey. To be exact, between exit two and three on the turnpike, which is a lot closer to Manhattan than Rehoboth.

  Aside from the time involved in transporting these orphans across state lines, I calculated the cost in gas and tolls and wanted to spit up a hairball myself.

  Just then our cell phone rang. It was the rescue lady letting us know she’d be two hours late to the rendezvous site.

  “It’s okay,” said Bonnie. “We can have dinner.”

  Like I had an appetite.

  So we headed off road to find food and fresh air. By this time I was getting used to the low level growling and occasional spitting from the rear of the car and thankful there’d been a cease fire in the alimentary canal warfare. Of course, once my own cat allergies kicked in, I started making pretty ugly guttural noises myself.

  Between sneezes I choked down some fast food (there’s never slow food around when you need to kill time) and we proceeded to the appointed rest stop—arriving at least an hour and a half before the cat and dog deal was scheduled to come down.

  Have you ever loitered at a rest stop? Of course not. Normal people just rush in on their way somewhere else for a quick pee and a chili dog. So there we were, leisurely checking out the lovely gift shop—a veritable cornucopia of packaged gummy bears and tabloids. Did you know that folks actually manufacture Jersey Turnpike souvenirs? We dropped $31 for commemorative mugs, several magazines (“The truth! Who’s gay and who’s not in Hollywood!!!”) and a bag of Twizzlers.

  Back at the car, the cargo bed was eerily quiet. Were Hogan’s Heroes planning something? Actually the troops were all asleep. So Bonnie and I sat, reading by dome light, about the purported lesbian affairs in Holywood. (nothing we don’t already know!)

  At one point, I started having trouble reading and thought my eyes were going. Why was the dome light flickering?

  “You don’t have the lights on, do you?” I asked Bonnie, just as the car’s battery wheezed its last and plunged us into total darkness. Great. I wandered off towar
d the service area to find a jump start.

  Although we were in the actual rest stop parking lot, less than 50 yards from the gas pumps, they had to send an official Turnpike truck, from the other side of the highway, to give us a jump. Naturally, Gomer the gas jockey had to charge us the extortionist price for a turnpike rescue. Is this any way to treat missionaries on the underground railroad?

  Finally the tardy animal rescue lady showed up at the…hell, I’ve forgotten the name of the service area. Monica Lewinsky Service Area? (lip service?) Pee Wee Herman Service Area (just self-service? Oh, stop it, Fay), her small car packed, like a Rubic’s Cube, with a dozen cages.

  Retrieving the wild kingdom from our car and passing it off to hers involved a lot of scratching and screaming. And that was just me. To be consistent, when Whitey was sprung for transfer, he once again propelled himself with a poop stream. But it was Jersey girl’s problem now.

  And so we bid a fond farewell to our furry charges and headed for home—keeping ourselves awake humming “Born Free.” We got back to Rehoboth at midnight.

  For the record, there aren’t enough little scented evergreen trees to hang from my car’s rear view mirror to mask the souvenir smells. But I look at it this way.

  Tolls: $7.00

  Dinner and souvenirs: $37.00

  Jump Start: $17.00

  Saving Whitey’s life: priceless.

  March 2002

  THE ANNIVERSARY WALTZ

  According to etiquette books, a proper twentieth anniversary gift is china or occasional furniture. Twenty years and you get a gift wrapped end table?

  As I write this, Bonnie and I will hit the 20-year mark tomorrow, and frankly, we’ve got all the Mikasa and Ethan Allen we need. In fact, we often sit, feet up on the occasional furniture, amazed we ever met at all. That we wound up dancing together on a windy March night two decades ago was an absolute fluke. I’m about to tell the story, so if you mind my getting a little mushy, bail now.