I've a Feeling We're Not in Kansas Anymore (23 page)

“You don’t get much to play with, though, do you?”

The boy shrugged. “I’m not an actor. My dad was in TV then, so they cast me. And I’m easy to use, so I’m still here.” He put down his sandwich and shook his head happily. “Believe me, plenty were who aren’t.”

He had a nice way of shaking his head—a nice head to begin with. He saw Roger watching him and looked away. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Well, you … you never know how people will react.”

True. Investigate a brazen Puerto Rican in a black muscle shirt and he’d turn out to be soulfully in need of cuddling; a taciturn bruiser might sniffle at an ambiguous comment; a dizzy kid would sacramentally produce rope from under the bed, his eyes on ice. You never know what they’ll be.

Now, in Madame Podyelka’s acting class, you knew what your fellow actors wanted to be just by what they did with their hands when they began a scene. You knew how the others would react, too. The performer’s friends would offer praise tempered by quibble; everyone else would rip the scene to shreds.

“Children, it is life,” Madame Podyelka would cry. “It is truth. Outside, it is false. Mistakes. Undirected.”

“Do you think acting class would help me?” Little Roger asked Roger Ryder the day he blew a line three times in a row.

“Want to sit in on one? Madame loves guests. She thinks once anyone comes to an acting class, he’s bound to come back for more.”

“Where is it?”

“In her living room.”

Little Roger shrugged in amazement.

“Madame thinks stages inhibit actors. She emphasizes acting in the round.”

“I’ve never acted before an audience,” said Little Roger. “I’ve never even auditioned. I was almost born on TV. Why don’t you take me dancing instead?”

“Want to go to the Royal Party?”

The boy tried, failing, to look comically sly. “Does Erika Kane need a tongue-lashing?”

“You know, she’s very sweet offstage.”

Madame says, “Darlings, there is no offstage. There is not thinking. There are empty performance. Now, let’s all practice our anxiety cough.
Odin. Dva
…”

Roger had gone out in the mode of a Colt model, more or less, picked up a real one, and had a jazzy time till the next morning, when the model went into a harangue about the infiltration of the American porn industry by extraterrestrials. He gave Roger the ticket to the Royal Party. “They want the best,” he told Roger. “Bring your hottest friend.”

Everyone was there, they say, but they always say that: to those who weren’t. There had been confusion as to how the title related to costume, so some came dressed as royalty while others simply behaved as such. A few discovered intriguing new places in which to wear crowns, and there was an unusual emphasis on drag. But otherwise the Royal was like all Great Parties, a place where one came to worship beauty and to dance—sometimes, but not usually, the same thing. It depends on who is dancing.

The two Rogers did some, but for much of the time they lurked among the sleek clutter. Here and there they grinned at each other. Once, in the excitement, Little Roger put his hand on Roger Ryder’s shoulder, almost in passing; sure homage from such a bashful fellow. Paul and Albert came up to rave for a bit. At one point Albert gazed upon Little Roger, then nodded slyly at Roger Ryder.

“Oh! ‘I Need a Hero’!” cried Paul, as the music swept in. “I have to! I have to!” He grabbed Albert and they rushed onto the floor.

“Do they think we’re lovers?” Little Roger asked. He had seen Albert’s signal of approval.

“They think we’re dating. They’d think Nixon and Mondale were dating if they walked into a room together. Albert and Paul are romantics.”

The boy pocketed his hands, released them, pocketed them. “Are we dating?”

Franklin wandered by. “I hear we have a new housemate.”

“Anyone I know?” Roger asked.

“Silly boy,” said Franklin, wandering off. “Albert told me
everything.
”

Roger hugged Little Roger. “Want to dance?”

Later, waiting for Little Roger to return from the men’s room, Roger heard a familiar voice over his shoulder: “The whole gang is disappointed in you.”

Roger turned.

“The party of the year, and you come as yourself with a bus-and-truck Heidi.”

“He’s a nice kid.”

“He’s dreary as three Kansas picnics.”

“I’ve been all over town, right? in a hundred snappy disguises. Don’t I get a night off?”

“Not this night. Here’s Georgie. Georgie ought to dance with you.”

Georgie, in T-shirt and jeans, looked like the man in whose honor clonestyle was developed. His name was tattooed on his right biceps.

“I don’t like beards,” said Roger.

Georgie’s beard vanished.

“Georgie,” the leader warned, “no showboating.”

Georgie took Roger by the arm. “Let’s find a quiet corner,” he said, “and get you nice and ready.”

“Wait a minute, I have to—”

“Make it tasty, boys,” said the leader.

There was no evading Georgie, Roger sensed; he’d get it over with and find Little Roger in good time. Way off at the edge of the party they found an angle shrouded in darkness. Georgie stood point, his huge back and long arms covering Roger as he flashed into mode as a surfer, dressed to match Georgie.

“Yeah, give me lots of package,” said Georgie, feeling Roger’s crotch.

“Let’s do this thing.”

Roger was so used to shifting look that he seldom bothered to view his changes anymore; he saw enough in the eyes of his witnesses. They followed Georgie and Roger as they eased onto the dance floor, reoriented themselves to observe Georgie and Roger, were heard to sing when Georgie wheeled behind Roger to simulate a humping motion.

“Let’s take our shirts off together,” Georgie whispered, his cheek smoothing Roger’s hair. “Do it real slow, where you pull up from the waist with your hands crossed.”

Who made him the director? Roger thought; but he did it, because once he had stood at the edge of this scene, wondering what doing it felt like. Smirking at each other like Krakens at a wake, Roger and Georgie parked their shirts in their pants; Georgie moved close to Roger and unfastened the top of his pants. “Yeah,” said Georgie. “Now you. Me.”

“I don’t do windows,” Roger replied.

He was about to leave the floor when the clacking of castanets caught his ear and two spectacular men joined them, similarly undressed, one—on the lean but lavish side—playing the instruments and the other—titanic—carrying an assortment of metal equipment on his belt. Each of the newcomers also bore a tattoo on his arm, like Georgie’s, “Tony” and “Keeper.” Grinning at Roger, Keeper, the metal man, flipped the top of Georgie’s jeans open and ever so slightly nodded his head. Georgie reached for Roger and bought his lips with his own. Roger began to struggle almost at once, but Georgie held him so fast he couldn’t even shift position, much less get away. Keeper sidled around, pinned Roger’s arms behind him, and handcuffed him. Roger sensed every eye in the room on him as the other three men began to stir, sensed that he had been plugged into the vertigo of a million hungry men. Doing it is an elite fantasy for the conqueror; being done to, however, might be all-encompassing. Those who most fiercely resist it pay its fiercest homage.

“New boy, come,” Georgie urged. “The handcuff dance.”

Tony played his castanets so sweetly that Roger was mesmerized, as by a caress. In another life, somewhere, he heard clapping, music, dishing, shouting, and Keeper telling Georgie, “Make him happen.” Swallowing his panic, Roger forced up a smile and slowly shook his head. “Take the cutlery off,” he said pleasantly, “or I’ll change into a hippopotamus in front of a thousand curious bystanders.”

“It doesn’t make animals,” said Georgie.

“Arnold Stang, then.”

“You’re no fun,” said Georgie, shooting an angry wink at Keeper. Roger was freed. Marching into the crowd to find Little Roger, he met a rota of stares, as searching as Diogenes. Why was it so easy to smile? Some of them were loving couples, cheating. Roger could not bear a cheat.

He found Little Roger sitting on bleachers near the refreshment table, looking like E. M. Forster when he realized that he might have sailors but would never be a sailor. Better: when he realized that, hell, he wasn’t even going to have sailors.

“Hey,” Roger said, tapping him on the shoulder. “I have a message for you from Roger Ryder.”

“How did … I mean, what message?”

“He told me to tell you that he’s networking with some advertising people. Stay put and he’ll be with you in a few minutes. Okay?”

Little Roger stretched his legs and smiled. “I’ll be here.”

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“He says he likes you.”

Roger ruffled Little Roger’s hair and sped away to meet the gang leader; trouble is never hard to find in an elite gay festival.

“And what,” Roger began, “was that punk vignette supposed to be about?”

The leader made the naughty boy sign at Roger, left index finger scraping right one. “You were rude to the gang. Surely I told you how much we count on loyalty.”

“Call your hunks off me. I’ll make their acquaintance in my time and in my way.”

“What better way than at a great place of the culture, and thus, in the disorderly conduct that inspires a million dreams?” He looked almost reverant. “You belong with your kind. You mustn’t squander the elegy on wallflowers. You are to be our great invention.”

“If you think I’m going to spend time with brainless disco freaks … You said they were sharp. And what’s all this with the tattoos, may I ask? May I?”

“You’ll have one.” The leader traced a line of sweat down the center of Roger’s chest. “When your three months are up. Yes, young fellow. You’ll take a look of choice, and your new name, and a whole catalogue of chores. Beauty is never boring—and you will party.”

Roger calmed down, even laughed. “I still don’t believe any of this.” He reached behind for his T-shirt. His back pocket was empty.

“You don’t believe? In the borrowed eureka of a Galahad? Don’t bother; I disposed of your shirt. I hate overdressing.”

“Why don’t you use your magic to build up my career?”

“I intend to, when you take the pledge. I fancy we’ll call you Gordian, because you make everything so complex. But there is a central cord of inspiring simplicity: you need to succeed.”

“That’s true of anyone.”

“At what, hey? Georgie only wants to dance and sleep. Keeper’s great truth lies in the singing of lullabies to runaway orphans.”

Roger surveyed the men promenading past them, looking, not looking; bright, drugged; dateless, booked. “And Tony?”

“The band’s musician. An offbeat fellow. I support almost any kind of debauchery, but Tony is so heavy that when you speak of a conservative scene he assumes you mean the guillotine is hand-worked instead of electrical. Picturesque. And not without contacts. He was with James Dean at the end. Messy; that was before Jocko joined us.”

“Who is Jocko anyway?”

“Jocko is the most irresistible man in the world. Our safety. The exterminator.”

Roger looked at the leader, long and hard.

“We have to enforce discipline, no? Be sensible. Don’t make me angry. Be useful. Actors can be so influential.”

“Look, it’s not … I don’t get what I want out of it.”

“You get what there is.”

“It was fun at first, but they started stealing fruit and—”

“All men are alike.”

“—babbling about aliens—”

“All men are whores.”

“—and—”

The leader took Roger by the shoulders and bore down on him. “Trivia,” he growled. “Performance is the factor!
See?
” He dropped Roger onto a bench. “I can’t bear to hurt a beautiful man.” He sat next to Roger, held his head, stroked his stomach. “Look around. Isn’t it heaven?”

“You’re beginning to sound like a costume designer.”

“Take a sizzling young cocker home and break his heart or something. Do it for the gang.”

Roger got up.

“For me?”

Georgie, Keeper, and Tony barred Roger’s path, Tony’s castanets dourly cackling.

“Let him go.”

Roger went.

“I know better ways.”

Roger was so eager to get back to Little Roger that he scarcely bothered to hide his transformation. Three men saw him change out of mode, so debilitated by drugs they could scarcely be said to have eyes at all.

“Your friend,” said Little Roger. “No, listen. How did he know who I was? In this crowd?”

Roger paused. “I told him what you were like, so he knew what to look for.”

“Come on.”

“My point exactly: come on.”

Madame Podyelka says it is very easy to play five things at once, harder to play to three, hardest to play one. “Intensity, children,” she advises, “is never boring.”

At Roger Ryder’s apartment, Roger played desire and Little Roger played nothing, hardest yet to play of all. At a point, you must face the other eyes, and then how can you give them nothing? You can look away. But the rest of the cast will touch you.

“Would it be hard to believe,” said Little Roger, “that this is my first time?”

Madame says there is no debut. “We have been acting since we were born.”

“Just tell me what you’re going to do,” said Little Roger.

Madame says, “We play the roles as we are cast.”

“This is nice, so far,” said Little Roger.

“We are cast,” Madame adds, “as we need to be.”

Roger Ryder has sometimes wondered why, throughout history, men have risked ghastly consequences just to get someone into bed. It can’t be for love. Is it because spectacular figures promise a density of sexual release not otherwise to be had? Is it for power or to make a wily story?

Maybe it can be love.

When Roger awoke in the middle of the night, he pulled a corner of the blanket over Little Roger’s shoulder, and Little Roger, sleeping, patted Roger Ryder’s back and said, “Okay, okay”; and the next morning they chattered while Roger Ryder made coffee, then drank it in silence; and when they were dressed and about to go out, Roger said, “Look—” and Little Roger said, “I guess—” and Roger was amused to think that spectacular men can say anything but everybody else has to speak his mind or stutter. These two decided not to say anything, and walked to the studio in happy confusion. On the way, a soccer player with the shoulders of Beowulf and a name tattooed on his arm waved at Roger.