Little Did I Know: A Novel (41 page)

Veronica came out a few minutes later carrying an “Eros bag.” She opened it and said, “I got you anal beads and a blue cock ring.” She thought it clever and amusing. I did not. I wasn’t happy. Feeling embarrassed, I walked quickly ahead toward the bar to meet the others.

A
s I raced down the street, I noticed the hundreds of advertisements posted throughout town. They promised drag shows, female impersonators, stunning imitations of Judy and Marilyn. There were ubiquitous, fetching invites to parties. Everything suggested a bacchanal, and as I walked past I wondered who would be the first of my friends to suggest we attend.

The entire day seemed like a precursor to a New Year’s Eve bash. The town was festive and friendly. Everyone was coupled, and public displays of affection were the norm. It was odd for me; I was embarrassed and surprised by my reactions to the lesbian and gay couples everywhere. I had always thought lesbian women were big, unattractive, smaller versions of sumo wrestlers. True, P-town had hundreds if not thousands of those women. From the back, you were certain that when they turned around they’d be sporting a penis and a beer belly to boot. But there were many women off the covers of fashion magazines or the centerfolds of
Playboy
. Some of these women were so gorgeous I was considering becoming a lesbian myself.

Then there were the men. Couples who were mismatched: you know, a hunk with a nerd. Sort of Burt Reynolds or James Caan with an Arnold Stang or Don Knotts. There were men who had chosen one another because each was awkward and unattractive, and those who were clones, buffed and shirtless, letting the world know how lucky they were.

After I adjusted, I realized that all these couples, as well as my friends, Veronica, and myself were all connected in their own way, and it didn’t really matter with whom. I still gawked a bit much at first, but as the day progressed I felt part of the melting pot and a bit more grown-up. We chatted up other couples. Not all were welcoming at first, yet we managed to make friends quickly, and my attempt to distance myself from this strange and open place evolved into something kinda cool.

Finally, we found our way to the wharf, where we intended to rent a ski boat and wet suits and hum across the midnight-blue waters of Provincetown Harbor. We reserved our time for later in the afternoon and then went off to kill the next ninety minutes.

Across from the wharf was the Provincetown theater, whose long history was jaw dropping to many of us. Plays by O’Neill and Williams had started here, read out loud for the first time on their way to greatness. O’Neill’s time in P-town was chronicled in a large exhibit of letters, photos, and hundreds of essays. He was clearly a tortured soul.

Was it necessary to be damaged to be a great artist?

B
y late afternoon our faces were all a bit too sun kissed, our skin raw from the dense, salty water and the hundreds of falls, dives, and inadvertent plunges we had all so happily endured.

Janet suggested we take one last swim at the nude beach about a twenty-minute walk from the wharf. A
nude
beach. A nude
coed
beach. Janet Kessler could sell tickets to see her unencumbered breasts and make millions, yet here she was proposing a group skinny dip to finish our day. Some of us said, “Okay, great idea,” while really thinking,
Wow, I get to see Janet’s tits or Veronica’s ass
.

The nude beach was an amalgamation of many things. None of them sexual, but most of them fun. I found myself checking out the bodies and bouncing boobs of my female cohorts and avoiding the swinging members of my male friends. I was embarrassed to see all the guys naked surrounded by so many strangers, so I looked past it all and marveled at how great Veronica looked without her clothes.

It was all strange; I had spent hundreds of hours in locker rooms with teammates chatting comfortably in the shower. Never gave it a thought. I had seen lots of girls naked, several of whom now pranced like preschoolers along the perfect, white sandy beach. But now it seemed that somewhere in my brain I heard shouts of,
Naked! Everyone is naked! Everyone including you!
Then, as a final sign that this was not for me, I began wondering whether I needed to put sunscreen on my dick, and if so, how awkward would that be as I stroked my penis to avoid a sunburn. After a while, we all took one last swim, which really did feel nice without a suit, and went to the showers to ready for dinner and the bacchanal that lay ahead.

Secunda’s parents were married in the summer of 1946. They took a two-week honeymoon on Cape Cod, and when they visited Provincetown they discovered a restaurant called Ciro & Sal’s. The place was inconspicuous, sitting in a small alley at the far end of Commercial Street. We decided to dine at this historic, unpretentious establishment.

I strolled slowly behind the others. As we walked I thought about the assembled group. We were all playing something this summer, either on stage or through the facade we presented to those around us. Veronica had something I needed to know but chose not to pursue. My friends loved each other from afar but were afraid to make a first move. We all thought of Janet as the sweetest and loveliest of girls, but earlier in the day she’d been buying deviant sex toys and leading a drive to have everyone run around in their birthday suits. I was a neurotic mishmash of insecurities while I led others to believe I was the real deal and on top of my game. At twenty-one, I couldn’t sleep through the night without an anvil on my chest. Secunda was so irreverent and direct. Perhaps it was because he had dough and a safety net.

None of us wanted to be real or feel anything. Otherwise, why did we drink so much and smoke weed and cloud our brains? Maybe that’s why Roger and his friends stuck their scrotums with pins—no question you would feel that.

A
fter a day of adventure and endless ocean games, we were ravenous. We ate as if tomorrow we were headed for war. We had pasta, seafood, fresh mozzarella, an assortment of vegetables with a magnificent garlic sauce that was so good you could bathe in it. We drank jugs of crisp Chianti. We ate steaming garlic bread covered with melted Parmesan cheese. And then there was the foriana, an indescribable taste-bud orgasm. It was a concoction of raisins, pine nuts, parsley, olive oil, red pepper, walnuts, anchovies, and grated cheese. Its aroma was pungent and beckoning as it was poured over steaming, fresh homemade linguini.

It was close to nine o’clock, a spotty moon held high and fast above. The street was packed and each club more crowded than the next. The air was humid and dense. I was pretty certain that before tonight turned to morning we would see some rain. The music and energy was all around, infectious and impossible to ignore. Whatever dark thoughts had hung unspoken quickly disappeared into the laughter and percussive beat of this New England Mardi Gras. Everywhere you looked, people were dancing, manic and in full flight. There was no decorum here, just abandon and a whole lot of grinding. Men and women were shirtless, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and sex.

Secunda and Kellie led us into a cramped piano bar. There were transvestites everywhere, tall, statuesque women/men who, other than for their size and formidable shoulders, were true beauties. Their gowns fit them perfectly and their curves were enhanced through the magic of fashion. It was difficult to remember they all wore penises along with their garters and four-inch heels.

Secunda asked the pianist if Kellie could play a tune or two, and his professional reticence disappeared when offered a financial reward. Kellie played fast, loose, and easy, keeping the energy alive and vibrant. People clapped and sang, and the party seemed to take greater flight. Secunda grabbed the mic off the top of the piano, Kellie modulated the beat, and he began to sing a rocked-out version of Sinatra’s “I’ve Got the World on a String.” Songs about “sitting on rainbows,” “a girl from Monterey,” and “falling in love too easily.” Anything and everything about being in love.

For everybody was. Secunda could really sing. He was sort of a Jewish white-boy version of Joe Williams, and Kellie really knew how to play. The room was hot. Boys, girls, and those in between rocked and bumped against each other’s butts. It was fun. It was real. It was outside my ken of comfort, but I took Veronica and three-four-five-stepped with strangers.

Secunda took it into falsetto and sang to anybody who ever had their hearts go pitter pat or stayed awake thinking of
that
good night kiss. Then he slowed his song down to where he was speaking in a slow rhythm, and everybody joined in for his final lyric.
“I’m in Loooooove.”

The place erupted in applause and cheers. Secunda held his fingers in a V, hunched over, and said, “I am not a crook” in his best Nixon. Pitchers of beer were passed around as everyone took a break and replenished before the next number, the next dance, the next connection. Secunda called Ellie, JB, and Janet to the stage and Kellie began to vamp “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” The girls came in on beat and performed the jump-jazz number as a sexy trio that made you forget the Andrew Sisters ever sang that particular tune.

The club began to dance again and, as we found our way outside, the jazz got jumpier and the place seemed to shake with happiness. Maybe you didn’t have to stick anal beads up your ass to find true pleasure.

It was misting, just enough to cool us off for the next stop, the famous Crown and Anchor, where the music was so loud you couldn’t make yourself heard, the dancing was more a release than an art form, and coupling found a new definition. As we walked up and paid the door charge, there was a clap of thunder and then another. Lighting flashed across the sky. When it began to rain I thought of Capra.

I
watched the bacchanal inside the Crown & Anchor. The smoke was foglike and made your eyes burn. The music was deafening. I was tired and done for the day. I had to work tomorrow and too much fun was worse than not enough. I felt as if I had eaten five pounds of chocolate and needed some air and, more important, some perspective. I was done with excursions outside the norm for the night, for the rest of the summer, and beyond. I’d do my work, live deeper with my girlfriend, and let those with needs I couldn’t understand play that game. I’d pass on the cock rings as well.

I walked as far away from the chaos as the protective awning would allow, sat on an old wrought-iron bench, and watched the rain fill up the sea. I stared into the night for at least a half a hour imaging that Veronica was inside enjoying the manic insanity that was the dance floor of the Crown & Anchor. The air had been cleansed by the rain; my mind as well.

I had started my summer thinking that I didn’t want to get lost along the way or fuck up my life before it started. I watched the rain pelt the sand, and it seemed to spell out
You‘re Okay, Sammy
. Upon closer look, I noticed the words,
So far
.

Veronica came out and sat beside me. She smelled of smoke, and her face was sunburned and flushed from dancing, noise, and circumstance. She surprised me by sitting on the other end of the small bench rather than next to me. Her hair was wild, hanging loose across her face. She sat watching the water, the small waves rolling and lapping the shore. It appeared she was looking for something, hoping for a discovery to leap out of the gentle dark blue.

We sat in silence for a long time. The music pulsed behind us, but with each passing minute seemed to fade away. Soon it was gone. All that remained was Veronica, myself, and a rain-soaked schooner harbor lit by an unmatchable light. Even in darkness, without a moon or stars, Provincetown had a glow about it that no one could explain.

“Are you avoiding me?” she asked.

“Not at all, honey. Aren’t you having fun?”

“I am, but I’d have more if you’d come back inside and dance with me.”

“I think I’m done with partying tonight. Besides, by the look of you, it appears you have already found lots of folks to dance with you.”

“May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“What did Gary tell you about me? Why do you suddenly think he’s a good guy?”

“That’s two questions.”

“Okay, may I ask you
two
questions?”

“You already have.”

“Well, then answer.”

“As to why I think he’s a good guy, that’s simple. He gave me a sincere apology—or at least I believed it to be sincere. If he chooses to betray me, then I am the fool.”

“I thought you were a don’t-fuck-with-me kinda guy.”

“You misunderstand me, then. I am not a tough guy, I am just the opposite. I’d rather kiss the girl, watch the game, or sing a song than be tough. I’m not afraid of throwing a punch, but it never seems to solve anything, and the misery usually lingers. Life’s too dangerous and too small for anything but love.”

“What if you’re wrong about Gary and he’s setting you up for a fall?”

“Then he wins.
What
he wins, I’m not certain. But if I catch him in the act, I’ll clock him, and he’ll fall down, scrape his knee, and have to buy a new pair of jeans.”

“It wouldn’t end there, you know. With Barrows, it never does, and you can’t ever forget that Barrows is his grandfather.”