Love Will Never Do (Without You)
Never did I have a doubt
Boy it's you I can't do without...
âJanet Jackson
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hen Bobbie Reynolds reported that she grew up in “some hick town” south of Ann Arbor, we immediately hit it off. Though said city of Milan, apparently, had never been bestowed with a nickname à la Hazeltucky, so naturally I took it upon myself to dub it Milanville.
We decide to meet downtown at the DIA where we go to see
La Gloire de Mon Père
(
My Father's Glory
), a French film they're showing at the DFT. All the years I've studied
le français
, I'd never even heard of Marcel Pagnol.
Mais le film est très magnifique,
and I'm adding the book upon which it's based to my last minute Christmas Wish List.
I love coming to see shows at the Institute of Arts. Sitting in the twelve hundredâseat auditorium with its ornate design and terra cotta tiles along the staircase (from someplace called Pewabic Pottery) always makes me feel as if I'm being “cultural.” Like I've finally escaped my white trash roots, and I'm amounting to something.
The first time I had the pleasure was back in 1978 while a student in Mrs. Fox's third grade. All thirty-two of us piled into a big yellow bus and headed down to Detroit to take in a stage play based on the life of Harry Houdini. While I don't remember much about the production itself, I do recall one particular scene in which the great magician, born a Hungarian Jew, got help from his friends in choosing a new moniker:
“Houdini, Houdini, a name we have found. . . .”
Did I mention the actor playing H.H. was also quite cute? At least from what my eight-year-old memory remembers.
“Where did you want to go for dinner?” Bobbie asks as we cross the parking lot, gravel crunching beneath our feet. “I'll drive.” We climb into her car, which looks exactly like mineâonly hers is a Plymouth Horizonâand head south on Woodward toward downtown. “How about Xochimilco?”
“What's So-shi-mil-ko?” I say the name slowly, repeating it back the way Bobbie just mumbled it. Of course I assume it's a restaurant. But one I've never heard of before.
Her jaw just about drops. “You've never been to Xochimilco?!” You'd think I committed a carnal sin the way Bobbie slams on the brakes at the stoplight near some theatre called The Bonstelle where they're presenting a production of
Peter Pan.
“In Mexican Town?” she explains in the form of a question.
I shake my head. In fact, I had no idea there was even such a place as Mexican Town. Greektown, yes. My ex-girlfriend, Diane Thompson, and I used to hang out at Trapper's Alley during the brief time we were going together back in eleventh grade. I always enjoyed walking around, holding hands as we rode up and down the escalators, feeling like a
real
couple. By that, I mean a hetero one.... Now I'm wondering what it would be like to do that with Kirk. I bet his skin feels rough and manly, with those thick, fat fingersâ
“Really?” Bobbie asks incredulously, interrupting my thoughts. “My parents used to take me there all the time, whenever we went shopping at Hudson's.”
To me, this fact is more amazing than my not knowing about some south of the border food joint. “You went shopping in Detroit?”
Growing up, the only time we ever came downtown was when my uncle would take me and my cousins to the Renaissance Center and let us run around like banshees. I remember us being terrified of all the “black people” we'd see on our journey, ducking down in the backseat, making sure to keep the doors locked out of fear of being abducted. God forbid Uncle Jim should actually engage in a conversation with one. Which he did constantly. Going to Michigan State now, I can't even believe there was a time when I didn't know one single African-American, other than my high school French teacher, Mrs. Carey. (
“Bien . . . Bien!”
)
We hop on I-75, down by the Fox Theatre, and head toward Toledo. I remember once reading on a Trivial Pursuit card that Detroit is the only place in the United States where you head south in order to get to Canada. (Now I'm thinking about Kirk and Raquel in Toronto, again.
Great!
) Sure enough, we round the bend, and there's the Ambassador Bridge. Years ago, when I was a kid, my parents took me and my brother and sister to Bob-lo Island. For some reason, my dad had it in his head that it would be easier / quicker / safer to drive to Amherstburg, Ontario, and board a ferry from over there. Truthfully, I didn't mind missing out on the whole Bob-lo Boat experience. Whenever we went on class trips in junior high, the boat ride was the worst part about the entire excursion. Though Brad and I would spend most of the hour-long ride following guys from other schools aroundâ
discreetly
âdeciding which ones we'd think were cute “if we were girls.” And how can I forget the time during freshman year at Webb when Brad and I devised a fiendish plot to break into bully Craig Gershrowski's locker at the Carnation Dance, crack eggs into his fifty dollar Adidas high-tops, and steal his duffle bag and textbooks. Which we later took with us on our end-of-the-year Band trip to Bob-lo and threw off the Bob-lo boat, to be forever lost to the depths of the Detroit River. (And to think, I was a straight-A student, named “Student of the Year”!)
Bobbie pulls onto the exit ramp at Porter Street. The surrounding neighborhood looks a tad bit sketchy with its run-down houses and what I'm guessing are abandoned buildings. Perhaps she senses my apprehension, because Bobbie tells me, “Don't worry. It's totally safe.”
Up near some street called Bagley, we park in a dirt lot on the side of a white building. Apparently, the restaurant's name roughly translates to “some place with flowers,” according to the sign above the front door. Personally, I've never been a big fan of Mexican food. Growing up, every once in a while my cousin Rhonda and I would stop by the Taco Bell at the end of her block and grab ourselves a little snack, after spending hours up at the House of Beer playing Pac-man. Being Mr. Finicky, I didn't really care for anything on the menu, so I'd always order the exact same thing: a taco with just meat and cheese. I have no idea what the hell I'm going to eat now.
As soon as we enter, we're greeted by the scent of refried beans and the sound of José Feliciano's “Feliz Navidad” (I happen to know all the words, thanks again to Mrs. Fox, who hailed from Spanish Harlem), followed by a boisterous, “Good evening, my friends . . . Welcome!”
Through a doorway leading to the dining area, a middle-aged man appears, addressing us like a Mexican Mr. Roarke from
Fantasy Island
. Only in his drab polyester suit and tie, with mousy hair parted on the side and combed across from left to right, looking like it's been pasted to his head with a serious amount of product, he's not nearly as handsome as Ricardo Montalban. Don't get me wrong, he's the friendliest host I've ever encountered in a
hacienda
. Which makes me wonder if he's the manager. Or maybe even the owner.
Bobbie sings out,
“Hola!”
Followed by some other select words of Spanish that I don't
habla
with the exception of
por favor
. If it wasn't taught to me on
Sesame Street,
I can't comprehend it. My guess is she's asked about a table for two, because our host cops a couple menus from the stand and leads us to one in some far-off side room all decked out for the upcoming holiday. I can't say I've ever seen a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer piñata before, but at this moment, there's one hanging from the ceiling directly above me. (What I'd
really
like to see is the Hermie the Dentist model.... Or is it Her
bie?
)
And the poinsettias! One is planted on each table, and another dozen or so decorate every other available surface. Whenever I see one, it reminds me of being nine years old, when my mother actually took us to church, before we officially became heathens. At Campbell Memorial Methodist in Ferndale, they used to line the altar with them. After the holiday season, my mother would always rescue one and bring it home. “Don't eat the leaves,” she'd tell us kids. “They're poisonous.” As if that was the first thing we'd think of the second she placed the potted plant on the end table in our living room, next to the terrarium she got from my Grandma Freeman's funeral two years prior.
“Here are tonight's specials, and they are most excellent.” After Bobbie and I have situated ourselves, our host tells us this tidbit. “Can I bring something to drink for the lovely couple?”
Bobbie blushes. “Yes, please . . . But we're just friends.”
Señor Roarke beams, looking like he's the Hispanic Dolly Gallagher Levi. “And may I ask why?” He turns to me. “Such a beautiful young lady . . . Why are you not snatching her up before some other
hombre
gets his hands on her?”
Um . . . How do you say
homosexual
in Español?
Speaking of...
We order a carafe of margaritas. While we're awaiting their arrival, I decide to broach what some may call a
delicate
subject....
“Kirk's not gay, is he?”
Without skipping a beat, Bobbie replies, “Why do you ask?”
In the past, I wouldn't have been so forthcoming with my answer. I'd hem and haw and beat around the bush, totally avoiding the question. But being that I've only known BJ, as I sometimes call her (her real name's Bobbie Jo, but she
hates
it), since September, so our history isn't as solid, I feel I've got nothing to lose. “Well, because I am,” I confess, “in case you didn't realize. And I thought maybe he might be too.”
The fact that Bobbie doesn't even bat an eye when I reveal my “deep, dark secret” reminds me how far things have come since I first came out to Brad back in 1986. Those years of thinking that if I told anyone I'm a homo, they'd totally hate me appear to finally be behind us. . . . Welcome to the 1990s!
“What makes you say that?” Bobbie asks. She dips a
tortilla
into some
salsa fresca,
mmm-ing like she's having an orgasm. “You gotta try that.”
I do, and it's not nearly as tasty as a jar of Tostitos. But I say nothing, nodding politely. “I don't know,” I tell her, playing it safe. “Based on some things that have happened between him and me.” Or is it
he and I?
Already, I'm feeling a little tipsy.
Bobbie raises an eyebrow, eagerly. “Ooh! What sort of things?”
Contemplating whether I should tell her what went down on Thursday, pre-holiday party, I go with, “You know . . . The hugs hello and good-bye. The fact that he loves Morrissey.” I know there are plenty of straight guys who fall into this category. But back in the day, Brad and I would always gauge which side a man butters his bread on based on his affection for The Smiths. Now that I think of it, I'm not sure where we came up with that compass.
“A lot of the guys in the Theatre Department are gay,” Bobbie reveals. “I mean, they're not out of the closest. But everybody knows they are. Which is probably why I assumed Kirk was too. But then sophomore year, I directed him and Raquel in a scene from
Streetcar.
. . . They've been together ever since. As far as I know, they're totally happy.”
“They are?” I ask, hoping to stir up a bit of hesitancy on her part.
“Let's just say,” Bobbie says, “Kirk and Raquel's bedroom wall is next to mine.”
Her insinuation makes me shudder. The thought of Kirk actually having sex with a
girl
is one I can't stomach. Especially Raquel Loiseau. She totally doesn't deserve the dude, the way she flirts with every single man she meetsâmyself included. The first day in Theatre Lab, the second I walked in the door, she was all like, “And who are
you?
” I'll admit it was nice having an attractive woman notice me after spending my high school years only getting looks from girls who I'll politely describe as being “big-boned.” But I can't count how many times I've seen Raquel blatantly seduce her way in or out of a situation, and Kirk doesn't even realize what's going on.
What do I have to do to make him realize
I'm
the one he's meant to be with?