Significant Others

  You remember that guy, they said, that stud from the Muscle System with the beer-can dick and the pecs that won’t quit. What would it hurt to sit in the same room with him? O.K., to sit there naked with him and two dozen naked guys and beat the old … No, it was too embarrassing.

  Think of it as the Explorers, his loins argued. That camping trip in north Georgia, 1964. Guys around the campfire, weary from the hike. The sunburned necks, the smell of Off, Billy Branson’s perfect smile flashing in the firelight, tantalizing beyond belief. The circle jerk that almost happened but didn’t.

  Well, now it could happen.

  When he arrived at 28 Barbary Lane, Mrs. Madrigal confronted him on the landing. “You’d better hurry,” she said. “It starts in less than an hour.”

  He felt his jaw go slack. If she wasn’t a closet clairvoyant, she sure as hell acted like one.

  “I heard about it on the radio,” she explained, as if that took care of things.

  “You heard about what?” he asked.

  “The welcome home,” she said, “for those gay hostages.”

  The light dawned. Two of the thirty-nine American tourists held hostage by terrorists in Beirut had proved to be gay San Franciscans—lovers, no less. Upon their return to the States, they had faced the cameras as a couple, beaming proudly, moments before accepting the unconditional gratitude of Ronald and Nancy Reagan.

  Michael had thrilled to the sight and had told Mrs. Madrigal as much.

  “Where’s the ceremony?” he asked.

  “Eighteenth and Castro,” she said. “They’re blocking off the street.”

  He did some hasty calculation. The JO party was on Noe at Twenty-first, only four blocks up the hill from the rally. If he hurried, the evening might be made to accommodate both the erotic and the patriotic. “Thanks for the tip,” he told his landlady.

  She bent and picked up a plastic bucket full of cleaning gear. “Well, I thought you’d want to know, dear.”

  He pointed to the bucket. “Did Boris barf on the stairwell again?”

  She chuckled. “Brian’s nephew is staying with us for a few days.”

  “His nephew? Is he … grown?” Everything made him feel older these days. At thirty-four, he still had trouble remembering that some of his contemporaries were the parents of teenagers.

  “He’s nineteen,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “I’m fixing up Mary Ann and Brian’s old place for him. Perhaps later you could give me a hand with that twin bed in the basement?”

  “Sure,” he answered. “Yeah … sure … be glad to.”

  His antsiness must have been obvious, for the landlady smiled at him. “I won’t keep you,” she said. “I know you’ve got a busy, busy evening.”

  That extra “busy” made him wonder again.

  Back at his apartment, he took a quick shower and trimmed his mustache. Tonight especially, he was glad he hadn’t shaved his mustache when everyone else had. It suited him, he felt, so to hell with the fashion victims who found him lacking in the new-wave department.

  When it came time to dress, he dug to the bottom of his bottom drawer and found his oldest 501's. The denim was chamois smooth and parchment thin, and the very feel of it against his legs filled him with exquisite melancholy.

  He left undone the middle button of his fly, just for old times’ sake.

  When he reached the Castro, he found a parking place on the steep part of Noe, then strode downhill in the direction of the music. On a platform in front of the Hibernia Bank, a gay chorale was already singing “America the Beautiful.” Hundreds of people, some of them crying, had gathered in the street.

  He wriggled through the crowd until he could catch a glimpse of the hostage/lovers. One was lean and blond and bearded. The other was also bearded, but he was darker and somewhat older, more of a daddy type. Michael could picture them together quite easily. He could see them on that hijacked plane, desperate when death seemed imminent, passing love notes under the murderous gaze of their captors.

  Then the gay band broke into the national anthem, and the crowd began to sing. Michael noticed how many couples there were, how many broad backs settled against broad chests as tenor voices filled the warm night. The world was pairing off these days, no doubt about it.

  The hostages took turns at the podium. They talked about home and family and the need for expressing love openly. Then they asked for a moment of silence for the sailor who’d been killed on their plane. When it was over, Michael wiped his eyes and checked his watch. He was already half an hour late for the JO party.

  He strode briskly at first, then began to run up Castro as the band blared forth with “If My Friends Could See Me Now.” At Nineteenth, he cut across Noe and completed his ascent to Joe’s apartment. The house, as he’d remembered, was a potentially handsome Victorian that had been hideously eisenhowered with green asbestos shingles.

  He caught his breath for a moment, then pressed the buzzer. Joe came to the door wearing nothing but cut-offs. “Oh … Michael. You’re a little late, fella.”

  “It’s over?”

  “No. Just sort of … Round Two. C’mon in.”

  Michael entered the dark foyer and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Sorry,” he said. “I was singing the national anthem and the time got away from me.”

  If his host appreciated the irony, he didn’t remark on it. “Take your clothes off out here. Stack your stuff on the stairs.” He slapped Michael’s butt and slipped behind the bedspread separating the foyer from the parlor.

  Michael stripped, piling his T-shirt, jeans and boots next to a dozen similar groupings on the stairs. He faced the hall mirror and checked himself briefly—for what? he wondered—before pulling aside the bedspread to greet his public.

  The men were slouched on sofas and chairs arranged in a crude crescent in front of the TV set. On the screen, two men in business suits were sucking cock in an elevator. A few heads swiveled in Michael’s direction, but most remained fixed on the movie, intent on the business at hand.

  He scanned the room for available seating. Nothing was left but the middle section of a sofa on the far side of the room. Heading there, he passed in front of the TV set, and it occurred to him—perversely—that someone might shout “Down in front!” just to embarrass him.

  No one did. He sat on the sofa, nodding gravely to his sofa mates, then glanced discreetly around the room at the other participants. This was Round Two, all right. As Teddy might have put it, there were very few members in good standing.

  In a La-Z-Boy next to the window sat Teddy himself, cock in hand, smirking ruthlessly at the latecomer. Michael looked away from him, fearful of losing the moment altogether.

  After a while, he got into it. There were some hot guys there—including that number from Muscle System—and the porn video suited his tastes perfectly. Once his self-consciousness had passed, he began to savor the sensation he had missed so dearly, the lost tribalism of years gone by. It wasn’t the way it used to be, but it stirred a few memories just the same.

  He was on the verge of coming when two men next to Teddy’s La-Z-Boy rose and left the room. They were followed, moments later, by three others. Presently a small din was emanating from the foyer, where the dressing ceremonies had begun.

  The guttural commands and primal grunts of the video were no match at all for the brunch being planned beyond the bedspread. “Don’t do pasta salad,” someone said quite audibly. “You did that last time and everybody hated it.”

  The fantasy collapsed like a house of dirty playing cards. As Teddy exited through a sliding door to the dining room, Michael caught his eye with a rueful smile. Teddy leaned over and whispered in his ear: “There’s no such thing as being fashionably late for a JO party.”

  There were two other men left in the room. One of them, the Muscle System hunk, was watching the screen with unblinking single-mindedness; the other, in similar fashion, was watching Michael watch the hunk. It was getting too intimate, Michael decided, so he gave up the e
ffort and left.

  He dressed hurriedly, avoiding conversation, then remembered his manners and thanked the host. As he headed down Noe toward his car, he stopped long enough to admire the reddish remnants of a sunset behind Twin Peaks.

  He could still hear the music down at Eighteenth and Castro.

  A Handsome Offer

  WREN DOUGLAS AND THE LIMOUSINE DRIVER HAD watched the sunset from her big bed at the Fairmont. The ripening nectarine sky had been a perfect backdrop for their postcoital cuddling, a pagan benediction of sorts.

  “Does it do that often?” she asked.

  “Sometimes,” he replied. “When the weather’s warm like this.”

  Idly, she massaged his temples with her fingertips, then worked her way up to his scalp. He gave a little faux-Stallone moan and repositioned his head against her chest, as if he were plumping pillows. His dark, curly hair was pungent with Tenax.

  “This would make a fabulous ending,” she said. “The credits should be rolling over that sunset. Here endeth the book tour.”

  “Two more cities,” he mumbled.

  She gave his cheek a reproving whack. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Portland and Seattle, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t wanna do it?”

  “I wanna do nothing,” she said. “I wanna lie around and be a total slug.”

  The bedside phone rang, mangling her reverie. “That’s my publicist,” she said. “I’ll put money on it.” With one hand still buried in the driver’s curls, she grabbed the receiver and barked into it. “Yes, Nicholas my love, I’m still alive and I’m still on schedule.”

  There was no immediate response, no telltale bleat of laughter from the adenoidal Nicholas, so she realized her guess had been wrong. Eventually, the caller said: “I beg your pardon. I’m trying to reach Miss Douglas … Miss Wren Douglas?”

  “You got her,” she replied. “I thought you were somebody else.”

  “Oh,” said the caller.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well … I have some business I’d like to discuss with you. My name is Roger Manigault. I’m chairman of the board of Pacific Excelsior.”

  Excelsior? What? The packing material? What could a fat girl do for an excelsior company? “Sorry,” she said. “Never heard of it.” Using her free forefinger, she traced the fleshy oval of the driver’s lips, then popped the finger into his mouth. He sucked on it obligingly.

  “We make aluminum honeycomb,” explained the caller. “Among other things.”

  She didn’t know what that was and she didn’t care. “Oh … right. Why don’t I give you my agent’s number? You can tell her what you’ve got in mind. This really isn’t the best time to discuss …”

  “I’m in the lobby, Miss Douglas. I know this is irregular, but … time is of the essence. If I could have just ten minutes with you.”

  She looked down at the classic features of the fallen Pompeiian sprawled against her chest. “Look, Mr…. whatever. Maybe if you call tomorrow …”

  “There’s a handsome fee involved.”

  She hesitated a moment, remembering her lust for shoes, envisioning how her Chicago loft would look with pink neon tubing around the windows. “Oh, yeah?” she said. “How handsome?”

  The driver looked up at her and narrowed his eyes. She smirked and gave his earlobe a wiggle.

  “Five thousand dollars,” said the caller. “For three or four days of your time.”

  “Look, Mr….”

  “Ten thousand, then.”

  She muffled the receiver and spoke to the driver. “Find my Filofax, would you, doll? I think it’s in the other room.”

  The driver looked puzzled.

  “My appointment book,” she explained. “It’s in one of the drawers. Just check, O.K.?”

  When he was out of the room, she uncovered the receiver and said: “Look, does this involve sex?”

  The caller seemed prepared for that question. “No,” he said quietly and almost immediately. “I can explain things better if you’ll meet me downstairs. I’m in the Cirque Room.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The bar,” he replied, “in the lobby.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you there in fifteen minutes. What do you look like?”

  “Um …” He faltered for a moment. “I’m wearing a gray pinstriped suit … and I have white hair and a white mustache.”

  “I’ll find you.” She hung up the phone.

  The driver appeared in the doorway with her Filofax. “This what you mean?”

  “That’s it,” she said.

  He laid the Filofax on the bedside table and hopped under the covers with her. “So what’s this shit about handsome?”

  “A handsome offer,” she replied, tweaking his cheek, “not a handsome man. Don’t get that pretty Neapolitan nose out of joint.”

  “What kind of offer?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, climbing out of bed, “but I’m about to find out.”

  After some indecision, she donned a pale blue sailor dress with puffed sleeves and a dropped waist. It was cute and becoming (without being overtly sexy) and would do nicely for a business meeting.

  As she tied the big floppy bow, the driver spoke to her languidly from the bed. “You comin’ back?”

  “You bet. Wanna stick around?”

  He nodded. “How long?”

  “Dunno. He’s down in the bar. Hour or so, I guess.” She patted the bow into place, then turned to face him. “Isn’t your wife expecting you?”

  He shook his head. “Tonight is PTA.”

  She slipped into her shoes and headed for the door, picking up her purse on the way. “Keep the bed warm. There’s some champagne and Almond Roca in the fridge if you get hungry.”

  Down in the Cirque Room, she had no trouble spotting her mysterious caller. He sat ramrod straight in a corner banquette, so markedly military in his bearing that she half expected to find epaulets on his business suit. She guessed him to be about seventy.

  He shot to his feet when he saw her approaching. This effort at gallantry—or at least his idea of gallantry—was far more endearing than she might have imagined. She smiled at him, then knelt by the glass he had knocked off the table, scooping up the scattered ice cubes.

  “Please,” he said, growing flustered, “don’t do that.”

  She looked up at him. “Why the hell not?”

  A waitress approached. “We have a little accident here?”

  “I’m such a klutz,” said Wren, glancing up at the waitress. “You’d think I could sit down without knocking the gentleman’s drink over.”

  The waitress took the glass from her, then looked at the old man. “What was it, sir? I’ll get you another.”

  “Scotch and water,” he told her. “And whatever the lady’s having.”

  Something kick-ass was in order, she decided, slipping into the banquette. “I’ll take the same,” she said, then turned back to the man. “Your name makes no sense to me.”

  He didn’t understand.

  “Pacific Excelsior,” she explained. “I thought excelsior was packing straw.”

  “Oh … no. In this instance it’s a Latin word meaning ‘ever upward.’ ”

  She winked at him. “I knew that.” She extended her hand and waited until he shook it. “Wren Douglas,” she said. “And your name again is …?”

  “Boo … Roger Manigault.”

  “Boo-Roger. Interesting. Never heard that one before.”

  He smiled for the first time. “Some of my friends call me Booter. That’s what I’m used to.”

  “Booter, huh? Why?”

  “I played football,” he replied. “Years ago. At Stanford.”

  “I like it. Can I call you that?”

  “If you like.”

  She laid her hands on the table, palms down, and made a smoothing motion. “So … what’s this about ten thousand dollars?”

  He faltered, then said: “I ha
ve … well, a very comfortable lodge up in the redwoods. I’d like you to be my guest there for a few days.”

  She studied him for awhile, then gave him a rueful, worldly chuckle.

  “I’m on the level,” he said, reddening noticeably.

  She shook her head slowly. “You lied to me, Booter. You’ve been a bad boy.”

  “I wanted you to meet me first. Before you said no.”

  “Get real,” she said, just as the waitress returned with their drinks. She nursed hers for a while, saying nothing, regarding him out of the corner of her eye.

  “I’ve never done anything like this,” he said.

  “That’s a comfort,” she replied dryly.

  “Do you think I would … do this, if …”

  “Where did you see me?” she asked.

  He looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “What set this off?” She laughed. “I mean, ten thousand dollars, Booter. That ain’t whoremongering, that’s … Christ, I don’t know what it is.”

  “You’re not a whore,” he said glumly.

  “Answer the question.”

  He looked down at his drink. “I saw your picture in Newsweek. I think you’re an extraordinarily lovely woman.”

  She nodded slowly. “So you read my book and decided: What the hell—maybe I’ll have a shot at it.”

  “No,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I haven’t read your book.”

  She drew back, affronted for the first time all evening.

  “I stay busy,” he explained apologetically. “There’s time for a little Louis L’Amour but not much else.”

  “Are you married?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you really … you know … chairman of the board and all that?”

  “You can check me out,” he said. “I’m not a lunatic.” He looked at her earnestly. “I’m sorry if I insulted you. I’m a rich man, but not a young one. I wanted to make it worth your while.”

  “Oh, please,” she murmured, rolling her eyes.

  He stood up to leave. “Let’s forget I ever—”