“You made me cry, Pumpkin,” Matt said on the way
home.
“I’ve seen you cry before.”
Silence. I hit a nerve and I didn’t mean to do
it.
“I’m sorry. I never want to intrude on your memories
of . . . Luis.”
He squirmed, but that was the first time I had
mentioned our resident ghost since we had met.
“I’m okay,” he said.
He was clearly not okay, but I let it be. I guessed
that death, in its many forms, could be evoked in music — moving,
soaring music. The moment soon passed and I began to hum the Cree
piece. Matt hummed too, but he was in serious counterpoint. He
hummed
Dixie.
Vacations were granted by both A&S and Axum Labs
and, once again, like our first B&B summer, we were free to go
where we pleased. However, where we pleased to go was none other
than Denver, Colorado. We left from Philadelphia because our travel
agent found us the cheapest way out at that
always under
construction
air hub. The flight was delayed — that is to say,
conditions were normal. I didn’t mind. The Sparrows were
twittering, making a scene for themselves before the straight
public, who either enjoyed the campy antics or fled to a corner
with their children huddled so as not to catch a disease. Didn’t
you know that homosexuality was contagious? The three Rons did a
chorus line number, while Todd Moorehouse marched hither and
thither complaining about the air quality in the waiting lounge.
Brian, the Librarian, panicked when he came through the metal
detector (a simple device in those pre-9/11 days). He was wearing
so much metal body jewelry, his crotch set off the alarm. He broke
down crying when the security guards asked him to remove his cock
ring or at least account for it. We roared and had a tale for the
ages to tell around rehearsal halls and dinner parties for years to
come.
Do you remember when Brian set off the metal detector in
the Philadelphia Airport?
Once boarded, the shenanigans didn’t stop. You see,
while we waited in the lounge, Padgett passed around some props —
Dixie cups attached to rubber bands and toilet seat covers. When
the flight attendant began her spiel, we were all rehearsed to
synchronize our movements with hers. We popped open the seat belts
and waved the flight instruction cards. The attendant, at first,
was not amused, but her male counterpart, who was clearly a member
of our tribe, joined in the charade. Even a few of the straight
passengers, the ones that weren’t shaking their heads and going
my, my, my, this plane is doomed for hell
, waved their cards
in support. Then came the
piece de resistance
. When the
oxygen mask was demonstrated, we all had our bouncing Dixie cups,
ready to apply to our dainty noses. Life jackets? Toilet seat
covers. The plane was roaring with mirth now. Guess they were
wondering what we had planned for flotation devices, but there we
drew the line.
Things calmed down a tad once we were airborne. Matt
liked the window seat and was quiet. Brian, the Library, sat in
front of us and occasionally would turn around and try to engage us
in conversation.
“I hear that they have a wonderful collection of
Rainbow Jellies at the Denver Aquarium,” he said.
I didn’t know they sold jam in an aquarium. I didn’t
even know that Denver had an aquarium. It took ten minutes of his
babble before I realized he was talking about some rare species of
jellyfish that swam in Amazonian waters. It put Matt to sleep. All
I did was bob my head and prayer for the man to turn about.
Suddenly, Padgett was taking drink orders. It appears he had
usurped the flight attendant’s coffee pot.
“One lump or two, sweeties,” he said. “We have a
variety of soft drinks and tiny little bottles of the hard stuff.
Wine is served in an eyedropper. Pretzels and chips and, if you’re
real nice to me, I’ll cut the cheese.”
The attendant was attempting to regain her cart,
probably realizing that about ten F.A.A. regulations had been
broken. Our director, on the other hand, was keeping the gay
steward company somewhere in the rear of the craft, and we supposed
that that may have been the sum of it.
Besides an occasional
Behave yourselves
bleated out by the humorless, we managed to be model gay citizens
out on a lark above the friendly skies. I eventually conked out
only to wake to a dry tongue and every joint yearning to be free. I
don’t like air travel, with or without a bevy of silly sissies.
However, I remember gazing over at my sleeping cowboy, his hands
folded, the ring shining in the dim reading light.
I have looked
forward to this trip for a long time,
I thought.
But who
could have predicted this? Who?
Then there was light and voices and the
Captain
speaking. Prepare for landing
, and all that standard crap. I
woke Matt up, and together we peered out the window. These were the
days of the old airport — Stapleton, before they had the mega-port
that ate everyone’s luggage. Denver spread before us and, in the
near distance, like a curtained wall — mountains. But not just
mountains. The Rockies. The Big ‘uns. The Great Divide. The red sky
bled over the crags and ridges. My heart and body were both a mile
high.
Our warden, a sweet African-American sissy wearing
an outsized beanbag cap glittering with rainbow rhinestones, met us
at the airport.
“Welcome to Denver,” he sang out.
His name was Derek or Dean,
I quite forget. We only saw him when we were summoned to be
somewhere. And I remember that one night he took us to a karaoke
bar called Rallingon’s or Remington’s or something like that. It
was dark and smoky and in need of my vacuum broom. He sang with
soul and was worthy of his beanbag cap.
So we all shouted out a good old New Jersey
Howdy
complete with a flutter of Z-snaps and Liza poses.
Matt seemed pale to me. I guessed it was the flight, although he
slept during most of it. Perhaps it was the ham sandwich and stale
cookies. Those were the days when airlines at least shammed a good
in-flight experience instead of devolving into hauling cargo across
the Great Divide. Matt assured me that he was okay, that he needed
to get his land legs. So I followed the beanbag glitter hat, like
the rest of the Sparrows, into an awaiting bus.
Denver surprised me. I expected it to be set on the
roof of the world. We were on the roof, but in a flat plain
surrounded by mountains. They loomed as a distant curtain. The city
spread in every direction. I remembered passing the State Capitol
and the performing Arts Center, where GALA Festival was hosted.
Then were crossed a river — or something that once was a river, now
a wide expanse of mud with a trickle running down its center. Our
hotel overlooked this trickle and the new baseball stadium.
Derek or Dean . . . no, now I remember it. His name
was Desmond. He chattered about how he was with the Denver Gay
Men’s Chorus and each member was responsible for a different
visiting choir. I recall thinking how large the Denver chorus must
be to spare a member to cover each of a hundred and ten performing
groups. I was excited.
We settled into the hotel. I wanted Matt to rest. We
were lucky, because the Sparrows were four in a room, but Matt paid
to have us private, which had some tongues wagging. But I didn’t
care. This was like a honeymoon and I didn’t need a Padgett or one
of the three Rons to be intruding on my happiness. There was no
time to rest, however, because we unpacked, washed our faces and it
was off to Boettcher Auditorium for the opening ceremonies. I could
hardly catch my breath.
The full compliment of choruses hadn’t arrived yet,
but the program was set, so the commencements could not be delayed.
It was generally known that some of the gay men’s choruses would be
fashionably late. Our very own Erastes Errata Chorus had arrived
the day before from Newark, or so it was reported. We couldn’t find
them. They were supposedly staying in a place called Aurora, so we
would need to thresh through the seven-thousand hoohoo’s attending
the Festival to find them. We didn’t until a week later.
Just think of it. Seven thousand gays and lesbians
invading the mile high city and on the same week as the Gay Rodeo,
which swelled the queer population to twelve thousand visitors. How
many were with the home team, who could guess? And it was Gay Pride
month to boot and we were all expected to march in Denver’s Gay
Pride Parade, especially now, because there was an insidious
referendum on the State’s voting slate called Proposition 2, which,
if passed, would make it illegal for gay and lesbian specific
legislation to be presented for consideration to either house of
the great State of Colorado.
Colorado was a schizophrenic state when it came to
gay rights, so I learned. Desmond clearly explained this to us.
“Here in Denver, there are many gay friendly folk.
Even more so in Boulder, where the University is persuasive. Now I
tell you this. There is this organ
eye
zation called the
Colorad
oe
Family Values Association that believes that gay
folk just shouldn’t breathe free on this here planet. Or at least
in the free State of Colorad
oe.
Theyz a powerful bunch, they
are. They tout their bullshit in Colorad
oe
Springs and
Pueblo, our very own Bible belt. Theyz most influential and if
theyz allowed to get their way, gay folk be set back to the dark
ages.”
We were expected to march. In fact, I got the
impression that the marching was regarded more important than the
singing and, frankly, that didn’t set well with me. Matt didn’t
express an opinion one way or another. I mean, we didn’t vote in
Colorado. I wasn’t even registered to vote in New Jersey, which got
me in deep shit with Leslie. There was always something she wanted
me to support. I guess I was born with the laundry gene and not the
political activist gene. I was in Colorado to sing — to warble in
Cree in that big ass auditorium — and it was huge. Lifting my fist
in the air and shouting to the mountains for pink freedom was the
furthest thing from my mind. At least there would be a big party
after the Parade.
Matt and I squeezed into the third balcony in
Boettcher Auditorium. It was one of three venues separated by a
grand promenade. There was a smaller hall called Hoyne Buell (we
just called it Buell) and a performance space call Ricketson, which
we used for rehearsal. Each chorus would sing their set first in
Boettcher, and then in Buell. There were no prizes. This was not a
competition. It couldn’t be. The big choruses — Turtle Creek,
Seattle, New York City and San Francisco were two hundred member’s
strong each. Some choruses were something more than a quartet, so
it was a pride thing. You did your best with what you had, although
when the Denver Womyn Chorus opened the ceremonies, my heart
stopped still. What a gorgeous sound.
“Am I hearing this right?” Matt muttered. “They’re
like angels.”
“They’re lesbians,” I said. “I think those Family
Values ding dongs would dispute the wings.”
There were a few speeches and a welcome from the
Mayor of Denver and . . . Governor Romer, who invited us to watch
the fourth of July fireworks with him on the banks of the Platte,
which was that muddy expanse that ran by our hotel. We had a
surprise guest, the composer John Corigliano, who was hosting a
performance of a
Symphony of Remembrance.
I was thrilled
that he was there because I had performed his
Fern Hill
when
I was in high school. I wished I had my sheet music and get a
signature. It would begin my autograph collection. I didn’t even
know he was gay, but we’re everywhere — especially on the
stage.
The evening ended with a selection from probably the
best GALA Chorus of them all — The Turtle Creek Chorale, a two
hundred member choir from Dallas. I swooned into Matt’s arms at the
power of their blending. He thought I would fall from our high
perch in the third balcony.
It was a wonderful beginning to this long
anticipated trip and I was ready for an adult beverage and the bar
tour. However, Matt looked washed out. That jet lag can be a
bruiser, so we hopped on the bus back to the hotel, and sang our
own duet — snoring in two off keys until the sun arose the next
morning over that mud flat called the Platte.
I let Matt sleep in the next day. I had rehearsal,
and it was none too pretty. The Cree number was fine, but our
fearless leader sprung a new number on us,
Fine Days and
Petticoats,
a campy piece that just didn’t fit in with our
other pieces. He thought it would show off the versatility of the
Sparrows. Some agreed, but most of us greeted the addition with
hostility. It was too late to give us a new piece and to ask that
it be memorized. We generally performed with sheet music, but the
larger choruses were off the written page. So it was understood
from the outset that we would need to memorize every piece.
Fine
. However, to give us a new piece, and a campy one at
that, with hand movements and a few chorus line kicks, was
unreasonable.
Our director did exactly what any high-strung artist
would do under the circumstance. He walked out, leaving Tim, the
accompanist in charge to lead us toward our performance date, which
was in the second week. As it turned out, peace prevailed. Another
well-known number was trotted out — one of the AIDS thingies that
probably would be sung fifteen or more times by the GALA choruses
during the festival. One of the Rons persuaded our
maestro
to agree, because our director had the hots for this particular
Ron. Soon they were inseparable and we proceeded unabated. Oh, the
politics of art.
Matt joined me for lunch and we decided that we
would limit our attendance of the choral performances to a just few
key ones.