Retail didn’t pay much, but within six months, my
mother awoke to an empty kitchen and asked her question no more. I
found an apartment — not very classy, but it had possibilities. It
was a first floor back dealie with a rear entrance and a small
courtyard. I couldn’t see the ocean from my window, but I could
smell the clams when they ripened — not the most encouraging aroma,
but it was my stink and it stunk just fine for me. It was private
for when I had my little heartbreak evenings, when the stink was
worse than rotting clams, but that too was my stink. I was also
within walking distance of the nearest gay bar —
The Cavern
,
which would be a blessing if I didn’t visit it so often, donating
my meager income to the latest assortment of fruity refreshments of
the adult kind. I was an adult now (barely), so what better way to
exhibit that fact than to imbibe a bit, and more than a bit. After
all, it was just a stagger across the street, through the alley,
along the beach and into my courtyard palace.
So I thrived, after a fashion. Then came Arthur —
Arturo, a stunning man, who wandered home with me one night and
never left. Well, Christmas be damned, he did leave, but not fast
enough. He stayed for six months, two of which were quite nice
actually. He didn’t work, so I left my daily bed unmade; and he
would be off spending my money at the Cavern by the time I arrived
home. It was fine with me. I joined him, and then we’d laugh and
play volleyball and run about naked on the beach (after dark, when
neighbor eyes were dimmed to see us). However, Christmas came to a
close after a sixty-day period, like an expired Library book that I
forgot to return. Arturo had another little addiction other than
Appletinis and beer. Meth. He was not a Methodist, would that he
was, and I am not judgmental when it comes to another man’s
predilections. However, when the cost is visited upon my bank
account and the benefits of the bed fade, I usually become as mad
as Queen Mab. My scant income could not compete with his habit.
Therefore, he augmented his income with a better-heeled married man
who made him his little lunchtime tidbit. Dinners went to a leather
daddy who lived in Asbury Park and would pick Arturo up on the
corner and redeposit him back there like clockwork. My evenings
were spent listening to snores. So we argued.
Arturo turned out to be a mean son-of-a-bitch. He
trashed my place one evening, and when I threw him out into the
courtyard, he howled like a cat — my neighbors stirring to call the
police, who showed up at my door wondering why a young swishy thing
like me would even consider letting a bum like Arturo be my
roommate. (We did the roommate thing on the police report). The
next day, I took off from work and called my sister, Russ — a
fellow ironing board surfer, who was also a Gay Sparrow and worked
in retail. Together, we packed Arturo up and showed him the door.
He was more docile in the mornings — pleading even, but Russ was
born with a steel corset. He deposited Arturo on the sand without
as much as a z-snap. I was glad to know this tough little baritone
from the Tuxedo store — fiery charm in the declarative and a fine
connoisseur of dust ruffles and dainty hand towels. I decided to
live alone from that day forward. After all, I’m my mother’s son
and had to do her proud. But then, Christmas came along and . .
.
It was Christmas again and through the hallowed
doors of Abraham & Straus, lady shoppers prodded and poked
through the racks while bored husbands watched the unruly children
or passers-by in skirts. I always found it difficult when children
ran amuck beneath the forest of ready-to-wear. However, give me an
army of the brats rather than the heaps of sweaters the lady
shoppers managed to unseat from the counters. Folding. Refolding.
No matter how many times I sorted the cashmere into size and color
order, the rainbow would unfurl in the wake of the shopping
herd.
I had become a master at sweater resettlement on the
holiday display. I was also an expert at attacking the shirt table,
the browsers unsorting the sizes. Fortunately, the plastic wrap and
pins kept the folds intact, except when a particularly nasty
specimen of shopper would open the wrap, unpin the shoulders and
let the garment drape.
There ought to be a law.
It was
enough to shake me out of my holiday mood, and that was a difficult
feat. When I smelled the holly, I was filled with the gift of the
ages — the thoughts of a new vacuum broom and an assortment of
attachments — that is, if Viv read my hints correctly. It was on a
day of such mixed feelings, in the wake of a shirt destroying
Wildebeest, who frankly was larger than one, when I felt the
prickle. Call it
good will to men
or
Wildebeests
, but
I always knew when the world was sorting me by size and color. A
holiday hunch. I twitched, disregarding the mess. I strutted to my
counter — a great glass and wood playpen festooned with tie racks
and wallets and key chains. We even had a wide range of gloves —
from rabbit fur lined to Crocodile Dundee — anything to warm your
digits or tickle your fancy. However, I retreated to the counter,
because I felt the
prickle.
I fiddled with my paperwork, not
that it needed fiddling, but because I didn’t want to appear too
interested in anything except my work. I was being watched. The
eyes darted from behind the jacket rack. They shifted occasionally
to the pants and coats, but always back through the jackets and out
to the counter. Watched — or rather, cruised.
It was not an unusual circumstance. I mean, with my
lovely form, many a
hoohoo
was caught in my fairy ring. The
secret was not to acknowledge it too suddenly or too auspiciously.
There are rules to this courtship of eyes — rules that a gay boy
learns in the schoolyard and on the fields of Venus. The shopper
pretended to be checking out jackets, but he was really checking me
out, fishing for a reason to come forward and state his case — a
wink perhaps, or a subtle stroke near the crotch. I was flattered.
He wasn’t bad looking, although a bit gruffer than my usual type.
He had a five-o’clock shadow and it was scarcely three. He wore a
strange thing for New Jersey — a straw cowboy hat — a bit too small
for his head, but with all the rhinestone cowboys on the Jersey
shore, why not a buckaroo shopper grazing in the jacket rack.
I kept to my paperwork, but peeked to see his
progress. I had nothing planned tonight. Well, nothing special. I
meant to head to the Cavern with Russ and lift the eggnog in song
with a rag-tag collection of Jersey Gay Swallows. However, art
never belayed a rugged cowboy in the jacket thickets. I couldn’t
stretch the paper game for too much longer. The stacks would be a
mess soon, and if you get too far behind, the place would look like
Filenes’ basement instead of A&S’ finest. I remember that the
prickle suddenly ceased. I darted about and the eyes were gone.
Shoot!
I then remember spotting the ugliest tie I had ever
seen in my cravat forest — a neon purple thing with a subtle
charcoal fleck through the fabric.
Yuck.
That will never
sell. I stole another glance toward the jackets, but my cruiser was
gone.
“I hate Christmas,” came a voice, which didn’t
startled me, because I knew it well.
It was Russ. I just ignored him and stroked the ugly
purple tie.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you. You hate Christmas, although any sissy
worth his salt wouldn’t brag about it. Watch out or I’ll cut up
your gay membership card.”
Russ leaned on the glass top.
“I just polished that,” I complained. I really
hadn’t, but the nerve of the man. He should know better. “What are
you doing here anyway?”
“I’m on break, hon,” Russ announced. “And did I
mention? I hate Christmas.”
I had had this conversation about Christmas with
Russ for every Christmas since ninth grade. Still, I had to say it.
“Best time of the year for retail. Fresh merchandise. Lot’s of
hungry shoppers. Plenty of fabric in hand, and sales, sales,
sales.”
“Not to mention, no rest for the weary,” Russ
said.
“Well, rest ye Merry Mary men, dearie, but not on my
glass counter.”
Russ pouted. “This girl’s feet are in the Pearl
Bailey zone.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch. I wish I had a boss like yours
in that fucking shoebox you work in. If I walked away from my
counter as many times as you walked out of
Tux and Ties
, I’d
be shit-canned.”
Russ stifled a yawn. I ignored it. He was always
trying to get my goat.
“Formal wear,” he said, with his usual condescending
campy air. “Formal wear just doesn’t sell like this crap from
Santa’s elves.” He brushed his hand through the ties — my ties —
even that ugly purple tie that you couldn’t give away at a
tollbooth on the Garden State Parkway. “Besides, when you work in
retail, never work big and schlock. Work exclusive. Work for
perks.”
Suddenly, he grasped my arm and I felt the prickle
again. I knew that prickle didn’t come from Russ. We were too much
the sisters
to generate any steam. His head lowered and his
voice dropped.
“Honey, honey, honey,” he mumbled. “Look at that
perk in the jacket racks. Maybe I should start working in schlock
retail.”
My cruiser was back — eyes, hat and five o-clock
shadow.
“Don’t be so obvious, Russ. He’s been checking me
out for the last half-hour. But you know how it goes. They come in,
look at this pretty ass, wink and wait, and then they open their
mouths. And there it ends.”
“Give it a chance, hon.”
“They’re all strangers. Don’t know me and don’t want
to know me.”
I gave a start. It was as if Viv stood beside me,
her stringy raven hair kissing her shoulders — her Estee Lauder
aroma dripping over the glass. I was my mother’s son.
Shithead.
Russ conveyed a stern look of gay wisdom. He had
been around the block more than I had — danced more, screwed more,
and was beat up more. In many ways, just like Viv, only with more
verve than the manicurist’s hippie heritage. Less flower power.
More Scarlet O’Hara.
“I know these over-the-counter encounters,” Russ
said. He fanned himself with his hand. “Who knows? Perhaps a little
Christmas cheer would do us all some good. You know, a little
pick-me-up.” He glanced toward the racks. “He doesn’t look so
little to me, hon. There might be a stallion under that cowboy
lid.”
“Don’t encourage me,” I said. And I was encouraged.
After all, it was Christmas, the time of the year I would pick up
the matching gift to go with the vacuum broom. “That’s what I love
about you, Russ. You’re so practical. You’re encouraging me to pick
up a man while I’m on the clock. Do you want me to lose my
job?”
“Not much of a job, you know. Still, it pays the
electric bill in that little shanty you maintain, I suppose;
especially now that Mr. Meth is gone.”
That pissed me off. I ran my hands forcefully
through the ties, spinning them in their carousel. I wished Russ
would toddle back to that
fru fru
mall shop that employed
him — employed him to take a break every hour. Russ bowed, not in
forgiveness, but because it annoyed me.
“Sorry,” he said. “Perhaps, that one over there’s a
millionaire on the prowl. A Texas oil man.”
“A millionaire who shops at A&S. Give me a
fucking break. And, speaking about breaks, isn’t yours up?”
Russ careened on the counter despite my admonishing
against his fingerprints on my well-polished counter top.
“Listen to your Auntie Russ. Never pass up an
opportunity to take what is rightfully somebody else’s.”
“Listen to your Sister Martin. That’s the fastest
ticket to hell. I know.”
“Hell, girl. According to the Pope, you and I are
going to hell — table for two reserved on the aisles. Best seats in
the house, waiting for the devil’s striptease.”
“Shoo. Back to work.”
A lady shopper appeared at the sweater stacks and
looked like she needed help.
“Shouldn’t you be helping her?” Russ said, winking.
“Some retailer you are.”
I turned my attention to the shopper, while Russ
scooted over to the jacket rack, probably to get a better look at
the mystery man. Russ was such a bitch at times. I guess if I
wasn’t interested in my stalker, Russ wanted a gander. He took
table scraps if offered — hell, even if not offered. I don’t know
why we became such friends. Maybe it was the
Viv
in him I
loved. He had the same daring
fuck the world, I don’t want to
get off
attitude. It was like having a portable mother and one
that probably cared for me more. After all, I was Mrs. Powers’
little accident, not that she neglected her maternal duties.
However, I was always that complication in her life that didn’t fit
well into the rest of the puzzlement that life really is.
“Can I help you?” I asked the shopper, but really
had my eyes averted to the jacket rack.
The shopper smiled dimly, her yellow teeth flashing
a wanton smile.
“Can I show you something?” I insisted.
She ignored me. She was wasting my time. Why did
they always think their time was more valuable than mine? By the
time she moved away, the cruiser was gone, probably fleeing at
Russ’ approach. Russ returned, like snagglepuss.
“He wasn’t that good looking,” he announced. “Good
ass, medium hands and about a nine and a half shoe.”
“You scared him off. Where did he go?”
“Well, you know your chances of . . .”
Suddenly, he was back. He emerged from behind the
leather jackets and approached the counter. I slipped back behind
the glass, pushing Russ away.
“Okay, girlfriend, your break’s up. Disappear.”
Russ didn’t budge.
“Leave,” I whispered. I introduced a sinister
malevolence into my voice, a demonic grunting that Russ could not
interpret any other way than
get out of here now or I’ll kill
you with a clean heart.
Russell snarled like a cat, but flitted
away.
And he’s at least a size eleven shoe
, I remembered
thinking.