said…”
“Because we get crushes on the men who teach us to be wonderful.”
And in crashed Dennis Savage and Little Kiwi, at least without Little Kiwi’s endlessly horrendous dog Bauhaus. The commotion eased the atmosphere, and Jimmy took his leave, clapping us all on the shoulder and swearing to stay in touch. Little Kiwi, who had had limited exposure to this son of sex—father, should I say?—stared at Jimmy and, at the last minute, impetuously rushed forward to throw his arms around him. Jimmy rubbed his back and kept saying “Okay, okay, okay.” Little Kiwi backed away as red as some people’s underwear, Dennis Savage and Jimmy shared a grave look, and off went the hustler with his suitcases.
* * *
That should be the end, Jimmy vanishing into the cashmere despair of the service routes. “He came in, he did it, then he went away somewhere.” But, some years later, as I walked up the aisle after Evita, a strong hand gripped my arm and I turned and there he was, the pair of us too stunned to speak. He was with a grisly moneygay group, one very tall haughty queen in a fur shako especially regrettable.
“Jimmy,” he sizzled, “if you would detach yourthelf. We have to get to Roddy and Roberto’th thoiree.”
Gosh, I thought, somebody still lisps. Jimmy held on to me, whispering as if he were passing contraband.
“Do you see Carson?”
“Yes, of course. He—”
“Would you please tell him something for me? Something important?”
“Surely, but why don’t you—”
“Get out of it, you Tribeca queen!” screamed the haughty shako. “Somebody puth him away! ”
I reached up and dislodged his hat, and he would have charged and queened me to death but for the crowds pouring past us.
“Look,” I said to Jimmy, “why don’t you call him yourself? Or you could even drop in on him. Messengers aren’t all that effective outside of Sophocles.”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”
“Leave these dreadful people,” I told him. “Come home with me, and we’ll call Carson, or even—”
“Jimmy, please.” It was another of the Roddy-Roberto set. “Hugh is having a fit. You’ll blow the whole deal if you don’t come now.”
Jimmy clasped my hand, said, “I remember all of you,” and left. And I stood there thinking, Why Tribeca? This sweater is from Bloomingdale’s.
Naturally, Dennis Savage scoffed when I told him. “That old dish!” he cried. “Half the guys in town don’t even know who Jimmy is! And look at you waving an Evita playbill at me, you follower! ”
“Oh, Christ.”
“How many times must I tell you? Gays create sell-outs; they don’t attend them.”
“I come to you with the last paragraph of a romantic tragedy and you lecture me on hip!”
“All right,” he said. “You met a devastato at the theatre and he asked you to take a message to friend Carson. Now for dessert: What did he want you to tell him?”
“Just for that, I’m not saying.”
“I’ll guess: ‘Carson, please take me back for you are the love of my life.’ Right?”
I said nothing. He remembers all of us.
“Or, rather,” he went on, “that’s what you hope the message is, don’t you? The name is love. And that is so bizarre, and so inane, and so likable, that it could almost be true. I’ve always said gay needs more romanticism. You may hawk antique dish and attend old shows, but emotionally you’re in the vanguard.” He went over to the window and gazed down on Fifty-third Street, upon the parade of the bribed and deluded. “The name is love,” he repeated. “The name of a thing is strategic. And there are three names in gay: your own, the name of your one true best friend, and the name of your imaginary lover, whom you never meet.”
I joined him at the window. “I can cite one person who met him.”
Dennis Savage smiled, utterly misconstruing the allusion. Three infatuations, I say. “Who but you,” he asked, “would get sentimental over the
“Because we get crushes on the men who teach us to be wonderful.”
And in crashed Dennis Savage and Little Kiwi, at least without Little Kiwi’s endlessly horrendous dog Bauhaus. The commotion eased the atmosphere, and Jimmy took his leave, clapping us all on the shoulder and swearing to stay in touch. Little Kiwi, who had had limited exposure to this son of sex—father, should I say?—stared at Jimmy and, at the last minute, impetuously rushed forward to throw his arms around him. Jimmy rubbed his back and kept saying “Okay, okay, okay.” Little Kiwi backed away as red as some people’s underwear, Dennis Savage and Jimmy shared a grave look, and off went the hustler with his suitcases.
* * *
That should be the end, Jimmy vanishing into the cashmere despair of the service routes. “He came in, he did it, then he went away somewhere.” But, some years later, as I walked up the aisle after Evita, a strong hand gripped my arm and I turned and there he was, the pair of us too stunned to speak. He was with a grisly moneygay group, one very tall haughty queen in a fur shako especially regrettable.
“Jimmy,” he sizzled, “if you would detach yourthelf. We have to get to Roddy and Roberto’th thoiree.”
Gosh, I thought, somebody still lisps. Jimmy held on to me, whispering as if he were passing contraband.
“Do you see Carson?”
“Yes, of course. He—”
“Would you please tell him something for me? Something important?”
“Surely, but why don’t you—”
“Get out of it, you Tribeca queen!” screamed the haughty shako. “Somebody puth him away! ”
I reached up and dislodged his hat, and he would have charged and queened me to death but for the crowds pouring past us.
“Look,” I said to Jimmy, “why don’t you call him yourself? Or you could even drop in on him. Messengers aren’t all that effective outside of Sophocles.”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”
“Leave these dreadful people,” I told him. “Come home with me, and we’ll call Carson, or even—”
“Jimmy, please.” It was another of the Roddy-Roberto set. “Hugh is having a fit. You’ll blow the whole deal if you don’t come now.”
Jimmy clasped my hand, said, “I remember all of you,” and left. And I stood there thinking, Why Tribeca? This sweater is from Bloomingdale’s.
Naturally, Dennis Savage scoffed when I told him. “That old dish!” he cried. “Half the guys in town don’t even know who Jimmy is! And look at you waving an Evita playbill at me, you follower! ”
“Oh, Christ.”
“How many times must I tell you? Gays create sell-outs; they don’t attend them.”
“I come to you with the last paragraph of a romantic tragedy and you lecture me on hip!”
“All right,” he said. “You met a devastato at the theatre and he asked you to take a message to friend Carson. Now for dessert: What did he want you to tell him?”
“Just for that, I’m not saying.”
“I’ll guess: ‘Carson, please take me back for you are the love of my life.’ Right?”
I said nothing. He remembers all of us.
“Or, rather,” he went on, “that’s what you hope the message is, don’t you? The name is love. And that is so bizarre, and so inane, and so likable, that it could almost be true. I’ve always said gay needs more romanticism. You may hawk antique dish and attend old shows, but emotionally you’re in the vanguard.” He went over to the window and gazed down on Fifty-third Street, upon the parade of the bribed and deluded. “The name is love,” he repeated. “The name of a thing is strategic. And there are three names in gay: your own, the name of your one true best friend, and the name of your imaginary lover, whom you never meet.”
I joined him at the window. “I can cite one person who met him.”
Dennis Savage smiled, utterly misconstruing the allusion. Three infatuations, I say. “Who but you,” he asked, “would get sentimental over the
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