I've a Feeling We're Not in Kansas Anymore (21 page)

Once in a while a runner flashes by along the edge of the surf, a pure image of sport, boldness, health. What is their motivation? How would one portray a runner? Have they a rapt childhood, a contentious vocation, a favorite pie? Roger is up for a part in a soap—not a great part, nor yet a great soap. Still, in Roger’s profession they say “Everything is potential.” Given the right space, the right text, and the right lighting, you can be anything. Roger has played a dragon, a Chinese conjuror, a crazed vegetarian—even Hamlet, in Louisville, where it doesn’t count. The dragon, in the second-grade Christmas pageant, was his greatest role; through perverse, cocky ad libs, he made such a hit that he was elected class president for the next three years. Things have slowed up somewhat since, and now there’s Roger waiting for a break. Sometimes he tries to will something to happen.

How foolish, the Pines, to abandon the beach when it is most enchanting. By day what a dire festival, as competitive as an Olympic stadium; now, open and accessible under its darkening sun, it is serenely epic. The runners pass through as if anywhere were more useful than here, yet they always come back, their faces as concentratedly thoughtless as before. Who are they? Accountants, physicists, spies?
Waiters?
A man in running shorts tells you nothing.

Another man is walking the beach, about fifteen houses to the west. Black Speedos. Another runner probably, set for the gainless race. Roger sips his drink and admires the sea. Wednesday he has his soap interview; a reading too, if they like him. They might. It’s one of those protean best-friend parts they plop in during a lull, to test viewer response before energizing the character with romantic commotion. Trouble is, they never warn you how to present yourself: what to act. They don’t tell you because they don’t know. They look and they listen. Maybe you hit them right; maybe you don’t.

The man in black Speedos isn’t heading for the wet sand where the runners live. He prowls the dunes, like Roger, but not aimlessly, like Roger. As he nears, he breaks into outline: black hair and moustache, broad shoulders, spacious torso, trim waist. Tall and strong, with a take-no-prisoners air. Perhaps on his way to cocktails at the east end of the Pines, where the big money is. One of those parties in which fat garment center honchos audition houseboy talent.

Another sip of Scotch and Roger ambles toward the ocean, pondering Wednesday’s choices. What do you project when no one knows who you’re supposed to be? The brisk man? The ebullient kid? Sloppy grin, wanton eyes? Keen patter? Or silence? The less you give the more they want.

Give me a hit, Roger thinks, and I’d own this beach. I know how to use power. Especially here—the most sophisticated village in the world acting like the most primitive. It could be a Greek city–state of two or three millennia ago, waiting out a cultural intermission till the next god comes. Thebes, maybe. Thebes awaiting the next god. Turning to the line of houses above the dunes to raise his glass in toast, Roger sees the stranger in black Speedos, forty feet away and heading right toward him. My God, what a stunning man—no,
shockingly
beautiful!

“What’s your wish?” he asks Roger.

“I’ll bet you’ve heard this before, but if your smile isn’t outlawed, I can’t be held responsible for any consequent collapse of civil order.”

“Nay, the collapse of order is what I plan.”

“Nay?” Roger smiles.

“You must help.” The stranger grasps Roger by the shoulders.

“Anything, to put it mildly.”

“I’ve formed a gang. We’d like to tap you.”

“Tap me?”

“For the gang.”

“I thought ‘tap’ might be new Castro argot.”

“If you join, you get to take any form you like. Physically.
Any form.
You change at will, every detail to your order. The professional advantages alone would be decisive. And socially, the possibilities are infinite, are they not?”

“Could I have my shoulders back?”

The stranger strokes Roger’s hair.

“I don’t know what you’re on,” Roger says, “but where can I get some?”

“Join us,” the stranger urges. “You might be the thousand most handsome men alive. That would be worth … what? A million within three years. And our revenge program guarantees atrocious deaths to all your enemies. Have you enemies?”

“Just my agent.”

The shoulders again. “I would be so glad to collect you, young fellow.”

“Your place or mine?”

The stranger turns Roger to face the houses, holding him from behind. “So much. Look. You can encircle it. Look. Every day there’s more. In a thousand years you couldn’t exhaust the supply. And you’ll have that long. Imagine. Taste it. Look.”

“I love this.”

The stranger smooths Roger’s cheek. “So many possibilities!”

“You’re wonderful. Who are you?”

“
You can change your looks.
Is there a greater gift?”

Roger pulls away. “Listen, ace, are you taking me home or not?”

“I offer you the world and you fasten on one! Use the head, young fellow: if you join my gang, you’ll never need anyone again. You’ll have it all. If the world is full of splendid men, can one be unique?”

“Okay, okay.” Roger’s eyes rake the houses. “Okay, whose idea was this? My entire house is on somebody’s deck, watching through binoculars, right? Let’s send the most gorgeous man in the Pines out to Roger and watch him get stirred up. It’ll pass the time till tea. Well, let me tell you, gorgeous is as gorgeous does.”

“Hush.” The stranger puts his fingers against Roger’s lips. “Hush, now.” He smiles, and Roger becomes as peaceful as a melted Humorette. “I don’t usually have this much trouble.”

“I’ll just bet you don’t.”

“Want proof? Where’s your drink?”

Roger looks around.

“You had a glass of Scotch when I met you. Where is it now?”

“I must have put it down somewhere.”

“Nowhere. We’ve been standing here the whole time.”

Roger laughs. “Poof, you made my drink vanish?”

“Join my gang?”

“Are you going to tell me who you are, or what?”

“I’m the gang leader.”

“All right, I’ll join. One condition: I want to be initiated by you.”

The stranger lets out a low, dirty ratchet-whirl of a laugh, the sole unattractive piece in his kit. “My gang will initiate you.”

Roger is silent.

“The deal runs thus. Three months of unconditional transformation privileges, no quota, all types, clothes included. Change as often as you like. When you tire of one look, move on to another, or drop back into your born form as you choose. I ask you only not to take the form of anyone else, living or dead. It gets touchy, and you bring heat down on the gang, and that would make me enormously displeased with you.” He very gently rubs Roger’s lips with his thumb. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Still Roger is silent.

“Would we?”

Roger shakes his head.

“Now, what do you give for three months’ free passage in the labyrinth of love?”

“I’ve been trying to give you my heart for the last half hour.”

“It’s customary for new members to run errands for us after their three months. We find it a pleasant way to instill a sense of gang loyalty. Unconditional loyalty, I need add.”

“‘Then is doomsday near.’”

“It’s very enjoyable work: introducing corporate executives to drugs of pleasure, luring reformed alcoholics back to dreams of drink, making theatre critics cranky just before a Sondheim premiere, tripping nuns … a droll life.”

“I don’t think I’d be good at it.”

“You’d be surprised what you’ll be good at after three months of feeling the invulnerability of absolute beauty.”

“What if I change my mind somewhere up the road?”

“Can’t.”

“What if I
do?
”

“Then I’ll send for Jocko.”

“Listen, does your keeper know you’re out?”

“Now it begins. They’re massing up for tea, and you’ll make your debut. Go. Intoxicate them.”

“Don’t I get a magic kabunga or something? To transform myself with? With dials for face, physique, and points beyond?”

“Young fellow.” The stranger rests a heavy hand on Roger’s neck. “Your jesting hurts my heart.”

“Why don’t you come along to tea, anyway? I love walking in with something terrific.”

“This day you will.” He gives Roger a push. “Go.”

Roger takes a few steps, then turns. “Will I see you again?”

“I’ll be checking in to follow your progress. And good luck on Wednesday.”

Roger comes back. “All right. Whom do you know that I know, and what’s this about, really?”

“This is about deception.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“You’ve sharp eyes and a good mind. That’s why I chose you. Savvy is moribund; and there’s no fun in corrupting the dull. My gang is keen as razors.”

They face each other for a moment. Roger nods. The stranger nods.

“You know,” says Roger. “I … I like … the way you call me ‘young fellow.’”

“That’s all right, then. Come.” They proceed to the boardwalk. “Do as I say and we’ll be close. We’ll talk of things, and I’ll befriend you. Now go there.”

Roger moves on alone. At the stairs leading to the boardwalk, Roger turns. The stranger waves. His grin shines for a mile. Roger climbs to the walk and, at an idle pace, deep in thought, Dionysus enters Thebes.

*   *   *

Actors are vagabond, and Roger Ryder jumped from house to house over the summers, landing at last with old friends in the thorny forest on the bay west of the harbor. They were short one share, and had been entertaining possibilities, thus far without luck. It was a quiet house, preferring dish to radio and chance to rules. The first weekend, someone brought out a gym-and-disco queen who kept house in a cockring and infuriated everyone with his “party tapes,” largely strenuous rock spliced into remarks made during torrid encounters. The next weekend, someone else produced an academic whose field was the use of the gerundive in early-middle Millais. It was his only topic of conversation. A quiet house: but this was too quiet. The third weekend brought a live wire, who had the idea that he must win his place through divertissement. Armed with sets of Scrabble and Mille Bornes (“That touch of camp!” he cried; none knew why), trivia quiz books, and barnyard impersonations, he held the house in rumpus till someone slipped a synthetic substance into his Yoo-Hoo, whereupon he organized a variety show and led off with an act of pastiche farting, in the styles of various show biz personalities. Then he passed out. Heading for the Botel, everyone was in a sour mood, because, really, was there no one of minimally acceptable appearance, character, intelligence? Is that asking much?

Tea was tea, changeless: a validation of the eternally renewable fantasy. No backstory compromises the breadth of shoulders, no giggle ridicules the stomach-waist declension, no keening mother or kvetching father humiliates the ambitions of a truly inspiring nipple radius. Mystery, here, is the one honesty, truth in a glance. There is, sure enough, the tactless intimacy of gathered data, when last summer’s most spectacular houseboy turns up in something like a dress, or when a man celebrated for decades appears sagging at the belt line. But there is always something new to browse. There is fame; there is notoriety; there is absolute visibility. And the day that Roger Ryder’s housemates came fretting out of their cottage, still smoking from the entertainer’s fire, someone whirled up out of nowhere and, in an instant, the hundred men present glimpsed, feared, and loved him. “Man of death!” Roger’s friend Paul breathed.

Everything was big, pointed, bold. A fairy must have spun his golden hair, a sculptor cut his lines, an alchemist dyed his green eyes, a watchmaker tightened his parts.

He smiled at Paul.

Paul whispered, “He burned my face!”

Fifty men fell silent; the other fifty began to hiss. The blond stood at the top of the entrance stairs and scanned the population. He saw plops wither, clones glumly marvel, contenders defensively flash their best feature, two adorable punks silently whimper, and a smashing muscleman—who had one flaw, a raucous nose—shudder and go slack.

The blond strode to the bar and smiled at the bartender. “Let me have a beer.”

The bartender also smiled, and didn’t move.

The blond put a hand on the bartender’s, caressing the middle finger. “Hey. Hey. How about that beer?”

The bartender stared. “Coming right up.” Yet he was still.

“Take your time.”

The bartender rummaged in a trance behind the counter. “One…”

“Beer.”

“… right…”

“Any brand.”

“… and…”

“Bottled or canned.”

“… yes…”

“Preferably bottled.”

The bartender gave him three glasses, seven twists of lime, and a box of napkins. “On the house,” he murmured.

“Thank you.”

Suddenly awake, the bartender found a can of something. “And the beer, of course.” He essayed a laugh.

The blond took another survey of the space. His eye lit upon a dark-haired youth whose cynical, hot-angles face played a fetching contrast with his elegant, hot-curves physique. The youth felt the blond’s eye, turned to meet it, looked away, looked back, and held it.

The crowd rustled in wonder.

The blond nodded thoughtfully.

The youth walked up to him.

The crowd tensed.

The youth looked at the blond; the blond leaned over and whispered in his ear. The youth looked down and carefully nudged the edge of the blond’s foot with his own.

The crowd moaned.

Locked eye to eye, the blond and the youth left together.

And fifty men turned to the other fifty men and said, “I want to die.”

*   *   *

At about nine that night, Paul was checking the lasagna as Albert set to designing the table settings. “Origami napkins!” he decided.

“Penguins,” Paul suggested. “Or little dinosaurs.”

“If only I knew origami,” said Albert.

The entertainer was still passed out.

Franklin got off the phone. “Even Barry Thompson doesn’t know who he was. No one has ever seen him before. He’s literally unheard of.”