Michael Tolliver Lives

by Armistead Maupin

  “Why not? It’s a rare opportunity.”

  From that moment on, “There is no fifth destination” became our all-purpose pronouncement. It sounded important, like something Gandalf might have uttered, yet it was patently ridiculous at heart. It became our way of saying “Big deal” or “Who the hell knows?” or “Lighten up, for God’s sake, you won’t get out of this alive.”

  Maybe we only get four destinations in life, and Carlotta’s trying to tell us not to be banking on the fifth, not to be wasting precious time on pipe dreams of eternity.

  That’s the way I hear it, anyway.

  “Do you smell something?”

  We were still sitting on the bench under the oak tree, and Ben’s nose was tilted skyward. I followed his lead and noticed the same thing: the sweet, teasing pungency of marijuana. Tracking it to its source, I found a couple of bar patrons wreathed in smoke, standing in the shadows next to a Dumpster. “Man,” I said, “the scent of home.”

  “Go get a hit,” Ben whispered. Since I haven’t traveled with grass—except sometimes by car in Northern California—since the “heightened security measures” of 9/11, my husband seems instinctively to feel my pain when I’m potless in a foreign city.

  “I can’t,” I told him.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s rude, when they’re strangers. And they haven’t offered it.”

  “Let’s just stroll by, then. I need to go to the bathroom, anyway.”

  So we proceeded to stroll, ever so casually, until one of the tokers—the shorter of the two—was startled by the sight of us and palmed the joint with guilty efficiency.

  “It’s okay,” I told him. “We’re from San Francisco.”

  They laughed uneasily. They were both in their forties, both in polo shirts and chinos, both gazing carnivorously at Ben. I’m used to this, of course, and these two weren’t in the least threatening, since neither one of them was exactly embracing his daddyhood. Their highlighted hair and fake tans (visible even in the dark) betrayed just how hard—and how long—they’d been clinging to the conceit of youth. And it’s not Peter Pan who makes little Ben’s heart beat faster; it’s Captain Hook.

  These guys seemed pleasant enough, though—especially when the shorter one held out the joint. “Would you care to partake?” His voice was Southern and smooth as sorghum. I found it familiar and comforting and deeply repellent.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” I said, matching his Victorian formality before sucking the blessed weed into my lungs.

  “What about you?” the taller one asked Ben.

  “No, thanks,” Ben said. “You guys go ahead.”

  I handed the joint back to the taller one. “He’s disgustingly clean.”

  The shorter one locked his eyes on Ben. “Well, good for you. You stay that way.” His tone was slightly patronizing, as if he were addressing someone’s teenage brother. He flashed an empty Tom Cruise smile. “Are y’all friends or something?”

  “No,” I said evenly. “We’re a couple.”

  He blinked at me for a moment. “Well,” he said, raising an eyebrow as he took the joint from the shorter one. “Didn’t you hit the jackpot.”

  Before I could compose a sufficiently punishing answer, Ben had taken care of things. “I think we both did,” he said.

  “Of course,” said the taller one, scolding his partner with a glance.

  “We were married at City Hall,” I told them, changing the subject.

  “That’s great,” said the taller one. “We couldn’t do that, of course, but…our pastor gave us a commitment ceremony.”

  I was surprised—and impressed—to hear that. “Around here, you mean?”

  “Yep. Tully Memorial Baptist.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” I said. Three days back in Central Florida and I was already sounding like Mammy Yokum.

  The shorter one sucked on the joint with a vengeance, making almost the same noise my mother made with her nebulizer. “We quit that congregation.”

  “Why?” asked Ben.

  “Well, the pastor started preaching about how all religions are the same and how (ssss) they’re all just guidelines for goodness and the Buddhists are just as good as we are and shit like that. Well, call me old-fashioned, but (ssss) when I accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my personal savior (ssss) I didn’t sign up for no Buddhism.” He handed the joint to the taller one, then turned back to us. “I mean, can you imagine such a thing?”

  I didn’t dare catch Ben’s eye for fear of uncontrollable smirking. “Oh, well,” he said, struggling for something to say, “I can see how…so it was sort of…a question of—”

  He was floundering pitifully, so I helped in my usual way—by interrupting. “I think I see what you mean,” I said to the shorter one. “If you join a spiritual discipline…whatever it is…you expect to be given the purest version of it.”

  “Thank you,” said the shorter one. “I told that pastor we wanted all Jesus all the time or he could just keep his damn collection plate. We’d rather spend it on shoes.”

  This time he’d meant to be funny, so Ben and I laughed, grateful for the release.

  “He really did say that,” said the taller one, terribly proud of his tell-it-like-it-is partner.

  “Do y’all live around here?” I asked.

  “Not far,” said the taller one. “Winter Garden. We’ve got a condo there.”

  The shorter one nodded. “We’re moving to Naples, though, just as soon as we’ve got the cash.”

  “Lucky you,” said Ben. “Italy’s wonderful.”

  “This one’s in Florida,” I explained with a crooked smile.

  “Oh. Right. Of course.”

  “On the Gulf,” said the taller one. “It’s real pretty there, and the beaches are fabulous. White sand as far as you can see.”

  “And white people,” said the shorter one. “It’s the whitest place in the state. Call me old-fashioned, but I could use some of that right now.”

  There was dumbfounded silence from the two of us, so the taller one looked at me earnestly and attempted an explanation. “Our Miata got broke into last week.”

  Another long silence.

  “You know what,” Ben said at last. “I’ve really gotta pee.”

  Back in the bar, we finally released a barrage of groans and giggles. “Damn,” said Ben, “what you won’t do to get high.”

  “Hey. You’re the one who told me to do it.”

  “Where do they make queens like that?”

  “I dunno.” I thought about it for a moment. “The Drama Club at Bob Jones University?”

  Ben laughed. “Guess there has to be one, huh?”

  “I swear, if it weren’t for Mama I’d be on the next plane out of here.”

  “You don’t like it here?” This question came from somewhere behind us, startling us both. We turned to find the burly black bear in the pixilated fatigues, smiling broadly. The name JOHNSON was stitched in black above his breast pocket.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said, “no offense.”

  “None taken,” he said.

  “We just met some assholes,” Ben put in. “It’s nothing to do with Orlando.”

  “That camouflage is trippy,” I said, changing the subject. “That’s the real deal, isn’t it?”

  The guy nodded. “Yeah.”

  “So your name is really Johnson?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not—”

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?”

  He chuckled. “Hell, no, honey. I’ll tell you anything you want. That’s my name, but I don’t do war—I do hair.”

  Okay, shoot me for stereotyping, but I would never have taken him for a hairdresser. Aside from his offhanded use of “honey,” there was nothing especially fey about him. He was more like some languid, gum-chewing UPS man whose forearms make you weak in the knees while you’re trying to sign that little Etch-a-Sketch thing.

  “Good,” I told him. “Then we don’t have to worry about you.”r />
  “What do you mean?”

  “You know…dying in that asinine war.”

  He regarded me for a moment, as if composing a response, but apparently thought it better to head in a different direction. “Y’all are partners, right?”

  “Right,” said Ben.

  “But you go to bars together?”

  Ben shrugged. “It feels good to cuddle in a crowd.” His arm was already around me, so he pulled me closer for emphasis. I knew what he meant, of course. A public display of affection—in the right place—can feel like a public benediction.

  The guy appraised us both, looking from one to the other with an intensity that was a little unsettling. “You look really hot together.”

  “Thanks,” said Ben, blushing furiously.

  “It’s obvious what you’ve got with each other,” the guy said, looking at me. “I can feel it from here. It’s like standing by a campfire.”

  I started to make a lame crack about being flamers—largely out of nervousness—but our admirer had turned his electric gaze back to Ben. “So he’s your daddy, huh?”

  Ben gave him that patented gap-toothed grin. “Sometimes,” he said. “And sometimes I’m his.”

  The guy nodded. “I hear you.”

  “Nothing formal,” I added. “No leashes or collars.”

  That got a laugh from him. “Do you guys ever…?”

  He chose not to finish this question.

  “Ever what?” I asked.

  “No big deal,” he said. “Take it easy, my brothers.”

  Then he headed off to the bar.

  Okay, here’s the thing: Ben and I had never had a three-way. Not together, anyway. We’d never made a rule against it or anything; in fact, we’d always considered it a pleasant possibility one of these days, when the circumstances were right. Like, say when we’re traveling together and a long way from home and it’s someone we’re both attracted to who’s attracted to both of us and who we’re never likely to see ever again.

  “Okay,” I said as soon as he was gone, “one of us has to say it first.”

  “He’s fucking hot,” said Ben.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Was he hitting on us,” Ben asked, “or just admiring our marriage?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Maybe he’s just the Welcome Wagon here.”

  “Maybe. My wagon sure feels welcomed.”

  Ben laughed. “I think he might wanna play.”

  “Yeah…with you.”

  “C’mon. You heard all that daddy talk.”

  “He was getting off on the idea of you with a daddy.”

  “He was practically slobbering on you, sweetie.”

  “Really?” I squeaked, sounding decidedly undaddy-like.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what should we do?”

  Ben shrugged. “Are you sure you want to?”

  “I guess so,” I said. “If you do.”

  “He’s awfully nice,” said Ben. “I mean, he seems like a decent guy.”

  “He does, doesn’t he?”

  Ben chuckled. “Listen to us.”

  “Shall we go ask him?”

  “Now, you mean?” He glanced across the room to the far end of the bar, where the object of our lust was standing alone in a pool of blue light.

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

  “Well…as long as it’s okay with you. I don’t wanna fuck things up between you and me.”

  “That’s why it’s okay,” I told him, cupping my hand against his cheek.

  So, with eyes on the prize and hearts pounding in unison, we made our way across the room, only to be thwarted by the pot-smoking Jesus queens from Winter Garden. “Hi, guys!” the short one yelled, grabbing Ben’s arm.

  “Oh…hi,” said Ben with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  “Good stuff, right?”

  It took me a moment to realize he meant the pot. “Oh…yeah…thanks, it’s great.”

  “Nice easygoing buzz.”

  “Yes,” I replied vacantly.

  “Lonnie’s cousin has grow lights in his garage.”

  I presumed that Lonnie was the taller one, but this was no time to inaugurate introductions. Over at the bar, Mr. Johnson was pulling on a brown leather flight jacket in preparation for takeoff. Ben noticed this, too, and signaled his distress with a not-too-subtle jerk of his head.

  “So where are y’all staying?” This was the taller one, gazing pointedly at both us. “With friends or somethin’?”

  “At a motel,” Ben said. “His family lives here, but we’d rather…you know…” He let the thought evaporate, too distracted to continue. Mr. Johnson was zipping up his jacket, slapping down coins for the bartender.

  The shorter one was on us now. “We’ve got plenty of room at the condo.” He smiled luridly. “And plenty more weed.”

  By now Mr. Johnson was headed straight for the door.

  “You know what?” Ben said. “I’ve gotta catch our friend before he gets away.” He turned and gazed at me pointedly. “I’ll be right back, honey.” And he hurried toward the door, throwing me to the Christians.

  “Which one is your friend?” asked the tall one.

  “Uh…just that guy down there.”

  “The black one?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ben had caught up with Mr. Johnson and they were talking. Or rather Ben was talking while Mr. Johnson listened intently. I tried to focus on the Jesus queens, I really did—since I was about to decline their offer of a bacchanal at the condo—but my mind was full of the gripping silent movie across the way.

  “How do you know that guy?” the short one asked.

  “Uh…what?” They were leaving now, Ben and Mr. Johnson, heading out the door together.

  “That guy. How do you know him?”

  “Oh, just…from around. He’s an old friend.”

  “I thought you were from San Fran.”

  “Well, yeah, but—” I knew that Ben was just presenting our offer in a quieter place. I knew that, and I trusted him. I knew he wouldn’t be snogging Mr. Johnson until I was there snogging him, too. And I knew that if Mr. Johnson proposed sex with Ben without the participation of yours truly, Ben would politely decline—and probably never tell me what the deal breaker had been. I knew all of that about my amazingly thoughtful husband, and I was still a wreck.

  “So…does that sound like a plan?”

  The Jesus queens were both blinking at me expectantly, though the question had come from the shorter, brasher one.

  “Uh…I’m sorry…what?”

  “Coming to our place for a nightcap.”

  “The two of you,” added the taller one.

  This time their meaning was unavoidable. “Oh…right…thanks but…I think we’re gonna turn in early tonight. Jet lag.” The door was opening again. Ben stepped into a patch of light and beckoned me to join him.

  “Sorry,” I told the Jesus queens. “I think my honey’s ready to split.”

  “That’s too bad,” said the taller one.

  “Y’all take care, “I said, beating a hasty retreat.

  When I reached Ben, he was grinning in sheepish apology. “Sorry,” he said, pecking me on the mouth. “I figured we needed to act decisively.”

  “So what’s the deal?” I asked.

  “He’s meeting us at the B&B.”

  “Did you tell him I’m positive?”

  “Yep.”

  “And he’s cool about…both of us?”

  “More than cool. Said he wouldn’t dream of breaking up the set.”

  I smiled. “Did you grab his ass?”

  Ben turned Huckish on the spot. “Maybe just once.”

  “Hey…go for it.”

  “I grabbed it for both of us.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “I asked him not to come till eleven,” Ben added. “So your pill can kick in.”

  “What a husband.” I thought about that for a moment. “Is that
what you told him?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if you had,” I said. “I’m not Viagraphobic.”

  Ben squinched his eyes at me. “That’s not a word, is it?”

  “I hope not.”

  “It might be one back home,” Ben said. “We’ve been gone for almost a week.”

  “Yeah…by now there’s probably a Council on Viagraphobia.”

  “Stop.” Ben laughed. “You can’t dis the city when you’re abroad.”

  “Is that a rule?”

  “Yes. It’s like talking about her behind her back.”

  “Are we abroad? Is that where we are?”

  “We’re certainly not home,” said Ben.

  No, I thought. We certainly aren’t.

  13

  The Chances of This

  For some reason, Ben and I both felt compelled to tidy up for Mr. Johnson. We tore through the place like dervishes, fluffing pillows and flinging socks into suitcases and rearranging toiletries around the sink. We might have been a couple of nervous hotel maids confronted with a surprise inspection from Leona Helmsley.

  “You first in the shower,” I said as Ben helped me fold the polyester bed cover and stash it in the closet. So he grabbed a razor and the red rubber travel douche from his shaving kit and headed for the stall. He was in there for a while—shaving his balls, I figured—so I made a mental note to do the same. If you’re going to barber down there at all, you’d better be faithful about it. A little stubble may be forgivable in a marriage, but it’s downright inhospitable when you’re—how shall we put this?—receiving guests.

  When Ben reemerged, smelling deliciously of blue malva shampoo, he was dressed in gray boxer briefs and a white V-neck T-shirt.

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” I asked.

  He looked affronted. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing. Just wondering about the dress code.”

  Ben fondled my crotch. “Wear your sweatpants. You look hot in those.”

  “All righty, then.” I looked around the room. “Have you seen my cock ring?”

  “In the soap dish.”

  I swear, Mikey, you’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached.

  This wasn’t Ben but my mother, spinning one of her golden oldies just when needed the least. I wondered if her death would finally release me from this telepathic nagging. Or if I was doomed to spend the rest of my life in Norman Bates territory.