The Cavern
was just that. The walls and
ceiling were tan stucco, sculptured into stalagmites. The floor,
except the dance areas, was uneven and gravelly. Bruce Q., the
owner and a real queer
StarWars
geek, was inspired by the
outpost bar on
Mos Eisley
. I often imagined Luke Skywalker
and Hans Solo drifting in from the beach in search of the
Millennium Falcon
. The room was hung with a variety of
rubbery and plastic cave creatures. The most fascinating was a
thing Bruce Q. called the
Zippilin
, a cross between a bat
and a cat. He had it rigged on a cable and, every once in a while,
the thing would go sailing over the dance floor and yap like a
Zippilin
, however a
Zippilin
yapped. Scared the crap
out of new visitors. The veterans just howled.
When I pulled Matt into
The Cavern
, no one
was dancing. No one dared, even though Carlos, the DJ, spun
platters. No one dared trip over the dance floor before the
bewitching hour, when Donna Summer blared over the two eight foot
speakers. I waved to Teddy Fitz and to Sam and Kurt, and then
presented Matt to Mother. Matt was withdrawn, but that didn’t
discourage me. As the Christmas elves spread the spirit, I believed
he would come to life. He was a product of a gay ghetto after all —
Melrose.
“Mother,” I said. “May I introduce you to my friend,
Matt?”
Mother’s face broke into a clownish smile. She
raised her tattered begloved hand for my caress. Matt looked away —
nerves bubbling. Drag queens might have been his discomfort zone —
at least seventy-year-old chicken-boned crones like Mother. I
learned that some gay men shunned drag queens, perhaps sensing
their own inner Ethel Merman wanting to pop out and sing
That’s
Entertainment.
This reaction was not unique.
“Matt?” I nudged.
“Glad to meet you, Miss.”
“It’s Mother,” croaked
The Cavern’s
icon.
“Make yourself at home.
Mi casa is su casa.”
Mother had somehow made the place her own over the
years, the poor dear. I knew she would launch into a history of
Long Branch and the good old days when the boardwalk stood proud
over the gay community, who frolicked under it. However, Matt
already drifting away. I nodded to Mother, and then nudged Matt
along the bar.
“What’ll you have?” I asked.
“Corona with lime,” Matt said. “And I’m paying.”
I grinned. Was this to be my Sugar Daddy for the
evening — Computer Programmer cash? Merry Christmas, Martin.
“Teddy, a Corona with lime and my usual.”
My
usual
changed from season to season, but
it was, if I recall at the time, a thing called a Suffering Bastard
— a double rum and Curacao concoction with more fruit juice than a
gay orgy.
The drinks were duly prepared and served on holiday
napkins.
“Where’s your elves hat?” I asked Teddy.
He laughed, and then plundered the bar for a pink
stocking hat. On him it looked like a head condom. Matt laughed,
and it was about time.
It seemed like an eternity before
The Cavern
filled up. We drank in near silence except for the occasional
comment on the decorations, but how long can you talk about balls —
well, the glass kind, at least? I now thought that Matt’s shyness
would dampen the evening, but every time I thought to steer us
around and exit past Gus the Bouncer, another acquaintance would
pop through the vestibule and under the stalagmites. Things became
lively when the Leather Santa arrived —
ho ho ho
. He was in
red-coated leather from top to waist, and then wore lacey leggings
with his ass hanging out the back, as any appropriate Leather Santa
should. His beard was not the fake department store variety. It was
real and as white as . . . well you get the idea. When he bounced
through the foyer, his pack of porn calendars on his back, the
place exploded in laughter. Christmas was here at last. Even Matt
roared at the sight. Although, how much was soulful glee and how
much Corona with lime, I couldn’t fathom.
“C’mon,” I said, pulling Matt off his too permanent
stool.
“What? Where?”
“The back bar. Santa wants to take a picture of
us.”
“I don’t photograph well.”
“Hell. We all look like shit when sitting on Leather
Santa’s lap.”
A queue had already formed and the music had changed
to
Deck the Hall with Balls of Folly
.
“And what should Santa bring you, little boy?”
I giggled, Santa’s bony knee up my ass, and Matt
blushing on the other knee.
“A vacuum broom. And it better have all the
attachments.”
Flash.
“Oh, attachments,” Santa roared. “And what might you
be doing with those attachments?”
“Never you mind,” I said, standing abruptly — so
abruptly, Santa’s other knee gave way, Matt sliding to the floor,
his cowboy hat flying off. Mother retrieved it. She donned it and
on her, it was the stuff of nightmares.
“Did you lose this?” she asked.
Matt’s good spirits fled. He snapped it off Mother’s
head, brushed it off (the hat, not the head) and rushed back to the
front bar. I shrugged, and then followed.
I fully expected that he would be gone. Why do I
pick these guys? Where did they come from? I gather them like moss
on a log.
I got to the edge of the empty dance floor, and then
halted. My flighty Texan hadn’t fled. In fact, he seemed as
companionable as ever at the bar and with . . . Russ, who flitted
in the shadow of Customer Chris, who from a distance bookmarked the
stalagmites.
“Is that your date
du jour?
” came a voice, a
rather masculine voice. I knew it couldn’t be one of my fairy
companions.
“Of course that’s our Martin’s latest squeeze,” came
a silkier voice.
I turned. It was my favorite ladies, if ladies you
could call them — Ginger and Leslie. We hugged. Ginger, she of the
deep voice and butch hair and beer belly, was less a hug than a
tackle. However, Leslie’s stylish coif tickled my nose. I had known
these two forever — or at least it seemed so. They both sang in the
Errata Erastes Choir — Leslie a soprano — Ginger, bass.
“Which one?” Ginger asked. “The tall drink of water
or the cowboy?”
“That’s no question,” Leslie said. “The cowboy. We
didn’t bring our Martin up to use a stepladder in bed. Besides,
he’s more Russ’ type. Right?”
“Correct, you are,” I chirped.
“Well, he’s cute,” Ginger said.
“Like you would know,” Leslie chimed in. “If he had
tits, you might dance a hoe down there, but he’s definitely mucho
macho, with that shadowy chin and those . . .”
“Dreamy eyes,” I said. “But I’m afraid he’s
broken.”
Ginger tugged my waist, nearly breaking my back.
“They’re all defective.”
“At least, the ones you’ve picked up.”
“Standard fare for you, Martin dear.”
“Why should you be surprised?”
I pulled away.
“Stop it. It’s Christmas and I won’t be denied my
New Year’s broken heart.”
“So you’re getting all the way to New Years?” Ginger
asked.
“Shush, Ginger,” Leslie said. “He’s been known to
get as far as Three King’s Day.”
They roared, but went suddenly demure, gathering me
close.
“Queens at ten o’clock,” Ginger said.
I followed her finger, and sure as hell, in came
three of the most obnoxious members of the Jersey Sparrows — from
their Pennsylvania nest. Todd Moorehouse, a professional type and
snob, his anti-Christ side kick, Padgett Anderson, a hair-dresser
of tri-state renown, and Mortimer Levine, an unproduced playwright,
although you’d think he was Edward Albee, if you believed what he
told you. They strutted into
The Cavern
as if they were bats
and owned the crevices.
Guano
, I thought. They immediately
pranced toward Matt with all the
élan
of Eleanor Roosevelt
in New Guinea.
“You should save him,” Ginger said.
“If Todd gets his ear, he won’t be able to hold up
that cowboy hat.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. The other chorus
members were closing in also. They must have come in a choral
caravan. They traipsed across the threshold in duos and trios, all
sizes, shapes and degrees of camp. However, my concern was my date.
I wouldn’t mind Matt joining the chorus, if he could sing, but
Todd, Padgett and Mortimer were a troika from the Otterson clan, a
rich New Birch entrepreneur, who, in my personal opinion, should
stay in Oz and await a house to fall on him. I had my experiences
with that coven. I got to the bar just as Todd opened his chubby
mouth.
“Todd,” I said.
Padgett flanked me, and then reached behind toward
Matt.
“Who do we have here?” Paddy asked.
Matt was talking about life in Melrose with Chris
the Customer, but Padgett interrupted him mid-sentence. Matt
stammered.
“Christmas,” Mortimer said. “Bah, humbug.”
“Just because we only sang one Chanukah carol at the
concert, you’ve become a bitter queen.”
“Become?” Paddy echoed.
“And I was going to buy you a drink,” Mort said.
“That would be the day,” came a rugged voice.
Ginger.
“Ah, the bulldogs are here.”
Ginger growled, while Leslie chuckled.
“But no one answered my question?” Paddy
complained.
“Why we only sang one Chanukah song? They’re not
called carols.”
“No.” Padgett turned again toward Matt, but Russ
stepped into the fray.
“Which one of you knows the line-up?” he asked.
“That would be me,” Todd said.
“Don’t believe him. The only line-up he knows was
after that raid in Baghdad.”
“Now, don’t knock it,” Todd said. “Iraq had its
moments.”
“Well, if you two don’t know,” Russ said.
Todd and Padgett gave each other their usual
withering glance. I never understood them. They were like oil and
water, but were inseparable, always feeding off their essential
differences. I guess they were a microcosm of the world, and thus
we orbit. In either event, they marched to the small dance floor,
calling the rest of the choir to attention.
“They’re sure jittery,” Matt said.
“That they are, love.”
I remembered that he smiled, a foam mustache hugging
his bristling upper lip. I wanted to lick that foam away. Here was
a stranger.
They don’t know ya. They don’t wanna know ya.
In
fact, he was stranger than other strangers that I had met — an out
of towner. A professional man. A cowboy and as skittish as a
pancake on a grill. Still, I was a sucker for his lips, although we
hadn’t locked them together yet. A thought crossed my mind —
dump the chorus tonight. They don’t really need my solo. Russ
could sing it or Jasper. Jasper was just itching for it.
“Martin,” Padgett called. “Are you a part of this
chorus or not?”
Not. But, yeah. And who died and left Padgett
director.
The director hadn’t arrived, and probably wouldn’t.
He often let us sail without him at impromptu gigs.
“I guess you’ve got to line up,” Matt said.
“Do you sing?”
“Like a frog.”
“A bass. Come join us.”
“You’d be sorry. And if I do, not tonight.”
I gazed at the double line that mottled across the
dance floor. There they were — Padgett, Todd, Mortimer, John (in
full drag), Jasper (hoping, no doubt, that I had a sore throat),
Rob and Ron and Ron and Ron (three of them — three too many), Russ
and Harry, and Henry, and Brian . . . and Leslie and Ginger. I
guessed they were the only Errata Erastes’ here tonight.
“Go,” Matt said, and then he kissed me. It wasn’t
much of a kiss and it stunk of Corona with lime, but it gave me
hope that I might get as far as Three King’s Day.
The first two numbers were a bit off key, but I
attributed it to the alcohol and the lack of a director. However,
the
Silent Night
, to which I sang the middle verse,
scintillated. Smoke be damned, I still managed to caress each note
like an angel come to earth. I closed my eyes during the first
measure — no director to watch and the choir would need to follow
me with their hum-hummy accompaniment. I knew Jasper wanted to push
the background up and thus drown me out, but somehow the other
first tenors held him in check. My voice soared, and just as I
reached my highest note, I opened my eyes and, through the tobacco
haze, I saw him — Matt the cowboy, his eyes hung on my every tone.
I even thought he sighed — a true fan, won fair and square.
Suddenly, the crowds disappeared, only he and I,
alone and suspended in the midst of this Christmas carol, my voice
leading him to a pre-passionate state. I’m not sure whether I could
still end the number and return to
The Cavern’s
cabaret
mirth. Still, no song goes on forever. It either finds its cadence
or perhaps its coda, but never lingers beyond the last note. As I
folded my hands in my ultimate
Sleep in Heavenly Peace,
I
somehow knew there would be a last note. I looked forward to the
coda.
We ended with a rousing
Chanukah
number with
Leather Santa prancing at the dance floor’s margin and Mother
managing something like a
hora
. Christmas became a Jewish
wedding. On the last chord, which might have been the
Lost
Chord
for the Lost Tribe, the
Zippilin
was let loose
across the stage, cawing a strange Bruce Q.
Merry Christmas
.
The DJ struck up
Everybody Dance Now
and five angels in jock
straps hopped forward — three waiters, a bus boy and some new
cutie, who I knew not. A general cheer went up as both dance floors
were jammed with gyrating merriment.
I waved to Matt to join me. He hesitated, but
finally moseyed to the margins, where I picked him off like a
carousel ring, pulling him onto the dance floor. Russ and Chris the
Customer joined us for a foursome. I was always amused at how gay
dancers congeal into this modern version of a reel — sort of a
square dance at King Henry’s court, where no one touched, but
everyone danced around everyone else. Even Ginger and Leslie vied
to make it a sextet crashing through our central core, wiggling
their asses with lesbian aplomb.