Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (15 page)

Now, coinciding with Mack’s first week at the store was Sparkle’s vacation to Cancun. He desperately wanted me to go with him, but I could never take that much time away from work. I also didn’t like for him to spend large amounts of money on me, which he would’ve needed to do if I went along. Dinner and drinks here and there were okay, but plane tickets and hotel accommodations were another matter entirely. Sparkle had enough control over my life already without being my sugar daddy, after all. So I politely declined and Sparkle went solo.

Needless to say, that week with Mack had been a busy one, what with training him and keeping up with my work at the same time, and I was glad for the hiatus with my best friend. (Also, I think you can guess by now, too much of Sparkle was not necessarily a good thing.) And, Sparkle being, well, Sparkle, he didn’t so much as call me during his entire vacation. (Perhaps vacation isn’t the right word here, since it implies taking a break from work. Sparkle was, for all intents and purposes, merely plying his trade along different routes.) Still, by the end of that busy week, I was glad for his return to my life.

That happened, grandly, at the beginning of Mack’s second week at work. I’d been covering the register for him while he studied in my office, when Sparkle, festooned with gift bags, pranced into the store wearing loose, white gabardine slacks and a cream-colored, silk chemise tied into a knot below his chest. He was so dark from the sun that when he walked into the shop I could’ve sworn it was that actor from the Sprite commercials. You know the one: the
un-
cola-nut guy with the rolling letters. The same guy who played the zombie in the James Bond movie. I have no idea what his name is, but I’m sure you’d recognize him. Anyway, that’s who Sparkle reminded me of as he ceremoniously laid down my gifts on the countertop. Every person in the store turned to watch the event, which, of course, only fed fuel to the fire. I could’ve charged admission, in fact, for the show we were all about to behold.

First came the emotive hugs and kisses, followed by the opening up of one tacky gift after the next. Honestly, he must’ve wiped the airport out clean before he got on the plane back home, I was guessing. There was a veritable cornucopia of mini bottles, Cancun t-shirts, snow-globes, pens with scenic beaches on them, and little stuffed animals in native clothes. In other words, crap on top of crap.

“Aren’t these for the man who already has everything?” I asked, without a trace of sarcasm.

“And you don’t?” he answered, also with a straight (whatever) face.

“That would be
you
, Darling.” I grimaced.

“Oh, yes, I suppose you’re right. I guess that these would be for me then.” And he took all the gifts and dumped them back into the bag they came in and then he set the bag on the floor and sat down on a stool and asked, “So, what’s up?”

“Um, you’re kidding, right?” I asked and gave him a
you’ve got to be kidding
look.

“Um, about what?” he answered and gave me a
I have no idea what your talking about
stare.

I sighed in return. “You’ve been gone a whole week and there’s nothing in that bag for me? That is, nothing I would want to keep?”

“In the bag, no. Check your back pocket.” Now he was smiling and motioning to my butt.

I reached into my jeans and pulled out a gorgeous silver I.D. bracelet with
Secret
etched across the flat metal in the center. Well, that explained all the carrying on. It’s no wonder I didn’t feel him tuck it into my pocket. I went to hug him for the beautiful gift, but he blocked my advance and said, “read the inscription.”

I did. It read:
Nipple Sisters 4ever!
That’s when he got an even bigger hugging and kissing reception than I did. Honestly, it was the best present I’d ever gotten, if not, well, the most twisted. Then he lifted his arm and jangled an identical bracelet in front of my eyes. His was etched with
Sparkle
across it and had the same inscription. Heck, you can say what you want about him, but, at times, he could be the sweetest man in the world. (True, those times were few and far between. And usually only reserved for when he was asleep. But still.)

“I love it!” I shouted and slapped his chest.

“I knew you would,” he said, knowingly, and slapped my chest in return. We had that whole Jerry and Elaine thing down pat. (He was Elaine, naturally.)

“So, now that we have that all out of the way, really, what’s up?” he asked again, and I got all excited.

“Miss Thing,” I answered with glee, “guess who’s got a brand spankin’ new assistant?”

“Let me guess. That would be you, right?” he deadpanned.

“Yup.” I beamed.

“And do you really get to spank him?”

“No, that was just a figure of speech.”

“Pity.” Then he put his elbow on his knee and rested his chin on his palm. Jet lag, apparently, was creeping up on him. Or a recently swallowed pill. Take your pick.

“No, not a pity. Wait until you meet him. He’s fabulous and has one of the most amazing personalities you’ve ever met.” I was hoping to rouse him with my excitement for Mack, but he just sat there, head in hand, and stared at me. “Okay, Miss World Weary Traveler, he’s fabulous
and
dazzling to look at.” Now
that
got his attention. He was up off the stool in the blink of an eye and asking me where my fabulous new assistant was hiding himself. “You’re nothing if not predictable, Sparkle,” I told him and led him to the back room to meet Mack.

When we got to my office, I opened the door, motioned to Mack, and said, “Sparkle, this is my new assistant, M…”

“Why, Miss Mary Mack, I do declare,” Sparkle interrupted, all southernly-like. Really, I should’ve known that those two beautiful creatures knew each other already. There must be some club or something that they all belong to. (Meanwhile, the only things I belong to are Costco and Blue Cross.
So
not fair.)

“I take it you two know each other then?” (Duh.)

“Oh my, yes, indeed we do,” Sparkle quipped. “We go way, way back. What’s it been? Three, four months already? We met at Jason’s birthday party, right?”

“Um, sure. Right.” Then silence. I guess we’d interrupted Mack’s studying, because he was strangely quiet and not his usual friendly self. I apologized for disturbing him, and then Sparkle and I made our way back to the café at the front of the store, so we could have a cup of coffee and chat about Cancun.

“Secret,” Sparkle said and immediately grabbed my arm as we sat down with our coffees, “I can’t believe that Miss Mary Mack is, like, working for you. Have you any idea how long I’ve been after that piece?”

“Um, four months?” I guessed.

“Try ten. We
met
four months ago, but I’ve been trying to finagle my way into his world way before then. Every time I saw him, I tried to catch his eye, but he was always into his books and never seemed to look around at anybody. I even thought he might be straight until I met him at Jason’s party. Now I run into him all over the place.  It’s, like, fate that our paths keep crossing. Fate! And now, now, my dear Secret, here he is, right under our noses and ripe for the picking.”

“Bad analogy, Sparkle.”

“Granted, but you get my point. And you know what they say, Secret: William Astan always gets his man.”

“Er, I thought that was the Mounties?”

“Where do you think they got it from?” I saw that one coming, but what the hell; knowing Sparkle, it could damn well be true.

“Okay, I get it. You like Mack. Now onto Cancun. How was it?” Truly, I wanted to know. I’d never been anywhere besides Kansas and San Francisco, and I lived vicariously through those that did get to travel. Sparkle was like my window unto the world. (Unfortunately, the glass was horribly stained pink and just a tad bit cracked.)

“Oh, Honey, it was so fucking hot and humid. I’ll take those cold San Francisco summer days anytime. First, the plane landed in this rinky-dink little airport…”

“And you headed straight for the airport bar…” I interrupted.

“And I went straight for the bar,” he continued. “Child, don’t think you know little old Sparkle like the back of your hand, because you don’t. (Uh huh, right.) Anyway, I just wanted to get into the spirit of Mexico (He pronounced it Me-hee-co.) So I finished my drink, got my Louis Vuitton’s, and strolled outside. All I can say is, now I know what a roasted chicken must feel like, because as soon as I stepped outside, I was hit by this incredible blast of hot air. Right away, I understood where my first mistake had been.”

Curiously, I asked, “And that was?”

“Never date your travel agent,” he answered.

And I countered with, “No, never date your travel agent and then break up with him while he’s booking you a vacation in the middle of August.”

“Whatever, Secret. Don’t be smug; it’s unbecoming. Anyway, being the trooper that I am (he shot me a
don’t you dare
leer before I could interject something else), I wiped the sweat from my brow and hailed myself a cab. Thank God for that drink I had is all I have to say about that one. It’s like they have no lines on the roads down there. The cabs swerve this way, they swerve that way. Honestly, you take your life into your hands just by getting into the damn things. (Melodrama, thy name is Sparkle.) Anyway, I can say this about the cabs, though: they sure get you where you’re going and fast. One minute I was at the airport and the next I’m at my hotel. And that was another experience altogether.”

“Not exactly four stars?” I asked.

“Two, at best,” he replied. “Apparently, there had been a hurricane the summer before and the area of the island that I was staying on was particularly badly hit. Half of the hotel was still under reconstruction. Guess which half I was staying in? I’m sure my ex-boyfriend/ex-travel agent had something to do with that as well. Fucker. Still, I told myself that I wasn’t going to let it get to me. I mean, really, how much time would I be spending in my room anyway, right?” He looked at me with a sad face.

“Let me guess,” I guessed, “it rained a lot while you were down there?”

“Very perceptive of you, Watson. Yes, it rained five of the seven days. I don’t think maid service had ever filled a mini bar that many times before. Instead of asking me if I wanted fresh towels each morning, I was offered an assortment of gin and vodka and scotch. God bless you, Margarita,” he said and made the sign of the cross over his chest.

“Was that the name of your housekeeper?” (Ask a silly question…)

“No, Sweetie, I had a blender in my room.” (…and get a bitter answer.)

“And the tan?” I dared to ask.

“Store-bought, I’m afraid. Looks real, doesn’t it?” I nodded a yes, though he did look a bit on the orange side. Still, who was I to kick a man while he was down?

“And the men?” (I was hoping that I wasn’t going to be three for three.)

“To my surprise, there were two gay bars in the town of Cancun, but none on the tourist island across the bridge. That should’ve been my first tip off. Apparently, the money that was being made on the island resort wasn’t trickling down to the town where the natives lived.” He sighed and shook his head from side to side. “Now, the first bar was a video disco, and the music was coming from videos that had been taped years earlier from
Superstation
TBS’s Friday Night Videos
. I never thought I would have to dance to Prince’s
Purple Rain
ever again, Secret, but I was sadly mistaken.” And now he bowed his head in defeat. (I guess I was three for three, after all. Some days you just can’t win.)

“The next bar,” he continued, “was mostly a neighborhood bar. Let me ask you, have you ever seen a very short and rather rotund Mexican man do an impersonation of Madonna singing
Like a Virgin
? (I nodded a no.) Well, let me tell you, if she were dead, she’d be turning over in her grave. God rest her soul.” We both made the sign of the cross this time. (I’m not really religious or anything, but it was Madonna we were talking about.)

“So, no men, then?” I guessed.

“Well, I didn’t say
that
, did I?”

I should’ve known better. “Then you did at least have sex down there?”

“Almost. See, after about a half an hour of supremely bad drag and watered down drinks, I decided that I’d had enough and I left. The bar had been on the edge of some kind of town square, and at night it was mostly dark and somewhat cruisy. Well, when in Rome…”

“Cruise for a Mexican?” I hazarded a guess.

“Exactly. The problem, though, was that it really was awfully dark. I could see people sitting here and there, but I couldn’t make out what they looked like, and I was certain that not all of them had been there looking for what I was looking for. So I decided to play it safe and I took a seat to let the action pass me by. That, as it turned out, was a much better plan. Lots of men walked by, and it was quite obvious that they were looking for some white ass for a change of pace. Being the equal opportunity whore that I am, I had no qualms with that whatsoever. The only problem was that the vast majority of men walking by were either old, fat, short, or a hideous combination of the three.”

“Not a happy trio,” I made note.

“No,” he agreed, with a frown. “Then, just as I was about to give up and go back to the hotel, I spotted what looked like a good prospect. He, too, was sitting alone on a bench about thirty feet away. From that distance and in the dark, I could only tell that he at least wasn’t short or fat. What I could also tell was that every time I looked up, he was looking back at me. And, so, I had a dilemma.” He stopped to take a sip of his coffee.

“Which was?” I asked, impatiently. Sparkle, you see, has a way of telling a story and stopping right at the juicy parts. I know it’s for effect, but it still drives me crazy.

“Gay Rule #7,” he answered and gave me a look like it should’ve been obvious. See, even after several years, I hadn’t mastered all the rules and I feared I never would. (I think he made most of them up as he went along, anyhow, but they did seem to come in handy.)