“I work at Axum Labs,” Matt continued. “I’m a
researcher. I also write code for PCs.”
“PCs. I’d like to get one of those,” I lied. Where
would I put it? All those fucking wires would need dusting.
“They’re hot. My friend Russ has a Commodore. He’s got this flight
simulator game, he plays for hours.” When he wasn’t playing with
himself, that is.
“I don’t write game code,” Matt said, as if I was
really carrying on an earnest conversation. “I’m mostly into
network research. You know — connectivity and packets.”
“Packets? Sounds like interesting work. Have you
done it long?”
“Since April. My folks moved up from Texas. My Dad’s
a civilian expert for the Air Force at Maguire.”
“Military brat?”
“Something like that. He’s been here a while. I
stayed back, finished my schooling and lived like any homeboy
should.”
“Homeboy?”
“Houston.”
“I knew you were an urban cowboy. Do you ride those
mechanical bulls?”
He swiped his hat off and laughed. I finally saw his
hair — a bit mussed from the cap, but jet-black, a mass of sexy
curls, a perfect accompaniment to his eyes. I decided then, he
could be mainlining silly putty, he would be my date for the
night.
“Shoot! I’m no cowboy. I’m a homeboy, from the
Melrose.”
“I thought you said, Houston.”
“Melrose is in Houston. It’s the gay homeboy’s real
estate.”
“The ghetto.”
“You can call it that, if you want. Yes, call it
that.” He smiled. My heart dropped. He was speaking now, and it was
like listening to a sparkling quartet by Mozart.
“So your dad got transferred to Jersey and you
followed.”
“No. I stayed in Melrose for some time after he
left, but there was an opportunity to work at Axum Labs, so I came
up here. Work’s good — have my own place here, in town, and the
folks are close by — Mom, Dad and sister Mary.”
Sounded like the holy family to me, especially
sister Mary. He had a full set and all I had was a manicurist
version of Cher, who called me
shithead
and was glad I
wasn’t under foot. I had heard enough. Any more information and I’d
puke. I wasn’t about to divulge my life history. He already knew
what I did for a living and where. ‘nuff said. However, I ventured
one additional query — just out of curiosity.
“So you’re out to your family.”
“Out?” He gave me a quizzical look as if I had been
speaking Turkish instead of Faggolish. “You mean, do they know I’m
a gay guy?”
He said this with such bravado and so loudly, I
winced. I was out and about, but I didn’t want the whole State of
New Jersey to know it. One of these sweet shoppers might be
carrying a baseball bat or a Lugar. The days of
I believe in
fairies
hadn’t dawned yet, even in the great liberal
Northeast.
“Shhh. Yes. No need to go on Public Radio about
it.”
He lowered his head and his voice, almost to a
whisper.
“They’ve known for an age, and they are mighty fine
with it.”
Mighty fine?
Wasn’t that a pudding?
“Even sister Mary?”
“Especially my sister. You see, if a homeboy doesn’t
have his family, he’s got nothing. When daddy moved away, I was
lost.”
“You didn’t have a boyfriend?”
Matt looked askance. I had hit a nerve. Didn’t mean
to do it, but he could have just as well asked if I had one, a
boyfriend that is, not a nerve. That wouldn’t have even broken a
nail.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t men to pry.”
“That’s okay. I’m not just ready to talk about
it.”
“So don’t.” I finished my cookie, and then farted
about looking for the next words out of Dodge. “So, what does a
homeboy do for fun on a cold, wintry night in New Jersey?”
“Actually,” he said. “I haven’t had too much fun
since I’ve been here.”
“How depressing. So you came to the mall looking for
an expert in matching ties to customer’s tastes and fancy.”
“To a career boy,” Matt remarked.
“Now, Mr. PC programmer, don’t you mock retail.” I
tried to mime his drawl. It sounded a bit like a Brooklyn knock-off
of Mae West. “Where else can you fart and fuss over Yves St Laurent
without having to buy him? The clientele can be real frustrating
and the management a sack of shit, but every once in a while an
angel face comes along and invites me . . . to have a cup of
coffee.”
“But you’re not even drinking the coffee,” Matt
said, not unkindly.
“No, we’re shopping. I’m in the market for eyes
today.” He stared at me again and I was pinned like a butterfly.
“And . . . that’s what I got. A pair of eyes in a size ten
shoe.”
“Twelve.”
My young heart went Titanic.
“Oh, honey,” I said. “Go to twelve and a half and
I’ll forget the eyes altogether and well be in the market for BVDs.
So, you are in retail, after all.”
He chuckled. It was a sonorous chuckle — drawled
even. Nice match for my
Ave Maria
voice.
“You’re funny,” he said. “You make me laugh. I need
to laugh.”
“At Christmas time, we all need to laugh. What we
need is a visit to my friend Russell.”
“Russell?”
I pointed to
Tux and Ties.
“In there, the queenliest queen you’ve ever met.
Makes me look like Joe Namath. A real hoot, and . . . my best
friend. C’mon.”
“Well, I don’t know. I was thinking just you and me
could . . .”
“Of course. But we need a venue. Nothing’s done in a
vacuum, except the carpeting. Let’s see what Russ’ got planned for
tonight.”
Matt slid into gloom.
“Now, you don’t need to do anything you don’t want
to do.”
“Oh, I want to go have some fun. I like fun, but . .
. I mean . . . I don’t even know your last name. I know nothing
about you.”
“What’s there to know? Are you writing my
autobiography or are you spinning me around your size twelve shoes?
If we like each other then, I’ll tell you everything from my cradle
roots to the time I sold you that purple tie.”
Suddenly, my heart hitched. He had bought that tie
for a special friend. Now perhaps that was the rub, but I didn’t
want to know. I pulled him up from the table.
“So what’ll it be?”
He sighed, but then smiled, his hat re-registered
over his raven curls.
“
Tux and Ties
,” he said. “Lead on.”
“This time only,” I said. “I generally don’t
lead.”
We scooted out of the bistro, the ceremonial
concluded. We were on to the more developed portion of the dance
card. Suddenly, I turned to him.
“Powers,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“My last name. It’s Powers.”
He laughed.
“Kieler,” he barked, his hand outstretched for a
good ole homeboy shake.
I grasped it, although upon hearing his last name, I
could only think one thing:
Ruby.
Tux and Ties
proved to be a quiet cove, since
few weddings and proms take place at Christmas. However, I knew
that next week would bustle as New Year’s proved to be a better
stimulus for formal wear. Still, Russ found something to keep him
busy; a customer with a size thirteen shoe, Holy Mother of God. I
dragged Matt in through the casements and called for assistance.
The place appeared abandoned, but I knew better. I spied four legs
behind the curtain to the dressing room. Russ was taking
measurements as only he could. I cleared my throat, but to no
avail. Matt appeared embarrassed, but did chuckle. He slouched on
the glass case, constantly gazing back out to the mall.
Finally, I announced in a loud voice, “Anyone see a
fruitcake? I’ve seemed to have lost my fruitcake.”
The curtain swished open, the customer adjusting his
pants and my friend Russ pouting like Butterfly McQueen.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Fancy dress ball?” I asked.
“No,” said the customer. He was a looker, every bit
his shoe size. He had soft tawny curls and was a head taller than
Russ. “A little private party.”
“So I see.”
“No, you don’t,” Russ snapped, striding toward the
counter. “But who have we here? The man from the jacket racks.”
Matt fidgeted, blinking his gorgeous eyes. I wanted
to smack Russ, but we had come to his haven for the evening’s
itinerary, after all. So I accepted a little pay back.
“Russ, this is Matt.”
Russ smiled, and then touched Matt’s hat brim.
“Ride ‘em, cowboy.” He turned to the customer. “And
this is . . . what’s your name?”
“Chris,” said the giant — a gentle enough looking
giant. He’d be a great bookmark in the club later.
I reached for Chris’ hand — a massive hand, and as I
did Russ winked.
“I’m Martin.”
“Good name,” Chris said. I blinked.
“So,” I said, resolved that introductions were
complete. “Are we off to
The Cavern
, or is your private
party drifting into the back room?”
“Don’t be silly,” Russ snapped. “Business is
business. I’ll just finish these measurements and I’ll meet you
there in an hour.” He glanced at Chris, who grinned. “Maybe
two.”
Matt was halfway to the door. I didn’t think he
cared too much for Russ. My flighty sister was an acquired taste,
after all. To know him was to love him . . . simple soul that . . .
well, there has only been one Russ amongst us, thank God. Where
would we find another?
I didn’t want to lose Matt’s interest, so I bid Russ
and Mr. Thirteen-inch shoe a farewell, and then headed for the
parking lot. Matt drove a Ford Cherokee (go figure) and he followed
my piece of shit Honda Civic to Long Branch. My little heart went
pittipat, but I was trying to keep myself in gear. Every time I
peeked through the rear view mirror, I expected to see something
other than a blue Cherokee and a cowboy hat. However, he stayed the
course.
Dusk closed in, and even more so. It felt like snow.
I didn’t mind. It had been a mild winter so far — cold, but nothing
more than rain. I loved a white Christmas, especially if I was
getting a Christmas present — a vacuum broom. What did you think I
meant? Still, I kept myself in rein. We’d park the cars near my
apartment and go directly to
The Cavern
. If my cowboy — from
Houston — why no, ma’am; from Melrose — the queers and steers
ghetto — if he wandered off with another filly or proved to be a
bad drunk, I’d save myself a holiday headache, although I had
plenty of Motrin. Who knows? Perhaps he could sing. I would soon
find out as the Jersey Gay Sparrows would be roosting at
The
Cavern
tonight to warble a pink version of an
ersatz
Christmas concert — a few carols and a Chanukah melody. I had a
solo.
I parked in my usual spot facing toward the beach,
and then immediately directed Matt to the visitor’s lot across the
street. It’s funny how we do things by rote, so much so they become
lost in a haze of more important memories. However, I recall the
precise logistics of that first date, for that was what this was.
First dates were always awkward. Did he adjust his hair and hat
before turning off the engine? Did he lock the doors? Did he
hesitate before crossing the street? And, most important, did he
take my hand or did he shuffle beside me down the street? In fact,
Matthew Kieler didn’t hesitate, nor did he straighten his hair and
hat or lock the truck door. He just strode to my side, and then
rocked awaiting my directions. So I hooked myself on his arm and
moved him along the street to
The Cavern’s
entrance. He only
said one thing as we moseyed along. I’ll never forget it.
“This place must be pretty in summer.”
And I thought, do you mean to stay around and find
out?
The Cavern
usually didn’t awake until eleven
or nearer to midnight, but it was Christmas, so the regulars were
already there and in a festive mood. Extra activities tonight — a
leather Santa and a subset of us Jersey Sparrows and the Monmouth
contingency of the Errata Erastes Choir, our local Lesbian warblers
(or grunters — whatever your perspective). So
The Cavern
percolated early that evening. I remember it well — Teddy Fitz
manning the bar, his rippling muscles shining under the flashing
Budweiser sign, and Gus the Bouncer, not collecting the cover
charge yet, which didn’t kick in until eight o’clock. He was a
burly bear, but as tender as a teddy, but not like Teddy Fitz, who
was everyone’s sweetheart — the bearer of the sweet liquid ambrosia
a la tap and shaker. The cute busboy Nick was on duty and that
hotty — what’s his name . . . Scott or . . . Steve — something with
an
S.
He was sizzling, but quiet — a memorable sight
nonetheless. I can still see him in my mind’s eye, even though he’s
passed beyond the shadow. Then there was Bobby, the waiter — eyes
filled with magnetic trouble, everyone caught in his trace.
The bar was bellied with the beach bums — Sam, Kurt
and Mother. They weren’t really
bums
, but they always seemed
to be at the bar from the time I entered to the time I left — never
failing. Mother was the oldest specimen of drag queen to my
acquaintance. He must have been seventy and I would love to spin
his story, if it were known. However, it was a mystery wrapped in
an enigma. Mother, with his sagging falsies, shabby feather boa and
askew lipstick was a fixture at
The Cavern —
as ubiquitous
as the barstools.
The Cavern
was unique. Thinking about it,
years before the fire that razed it to rubble, the place had three
huge rooms — a front bar, a dance floor (actually two dance floors)
and a back bar. The back bar opened onto a volleyball court, where
in summer we could watch the players volley in their
all-together
. In winter, the court was a vacancy between the
back bar and the shack. The shack had yet another bar — more
intimate and the place for pick-ups.