the Year in 1975?ââthe languid young man behind the ornate antique cash register handed me an envelope. This time, the skill-testing question wasnât about me, not directly. The answer was: Doug Gribetz. Kathy wouldnât know this answer.
âSomeone else was in asking about the envelope,â the young man said.
âWho?â
âA woman in a green wig and Groucho glasses, but she couldnât answer the question,â he said.
âHmmm. Thanks,â I said, and took my coffee to a little round marble table.
Inside the envelope, there was another cootie catcher, a photo, and half a dollar bill. The typed note inside the cootie catcher said, âWait for contact.â That was it.
The half dollar bill had French handwriting on it. George had spoken to me in French again here, and at that point, to cover my ass, Iâd told him that I read French better than I spoke it, though I did neither. He wrote something on a dollar bill and handed it to me.
âWhat does it say?â Billy had asked.
âMay all your dreams come true,â George had said. âItâs good luck.â
After nodding stupidly, as if I knew what heâd written, I took the dollar and put it in my purse. George said something else to me in French, and when I didnât answer, he winked again, and started talking in English. The thing about the dollar bill was, later that night, when we got back to the hotel, I ripped it in half and gave half to Julie so we could each have some of the good luck contained therein. The plan was, we would tape the dollar together the next time we came to New York and spend it on something for both of us. Somehow, we believed this would activate the good luck and make our wishes come true.
Now I had a little French under my belt, and I could read the partial sentence on this half-dollar.
âIl essaie â¦â it said. He is trying.
How strange. I wondered what the second half of the dollar bill said. I had it tucked away somewhere.
The photo, which showed Julie with George in front of the old Cafe Buñuel, stopped me cold. I looked more closely at it. You know how sometimes you see a movie you first saw a long time ago, and you recognize a now famous actor in it? When you watched it the first time, he or she was unknown, and so he or she didnât really register with you. The supporting or minor character played by the now famous person appears larger, and the movie takes on a whole different dimension.
Well, thatâs how I felt when I looked at the photo. I recognized George from somewhere other than that night, somewhere since. George was smiling broadly for the camera, his arm around Julie.
The photo was of poor quality, but as I remembered it, both George and Billy were good-looking in a swarthy kind of way, George a bit taller with distinctive flaring nostrils, Billy a bit plumper with a piggy nose. I couldnât be sure. There were no pictures of Billy, and I couldnât for the life of me fix his face in my mind.
A couple of years after that trip, when I was older and wiser, etc., I figured that Billy was camera-shy because he was probably married. He didnât wear a ring, but lots of men didnât, and donât, even today.
Now I wondered if Billy wasnât secretly gay. Though he didnât look gayâhe was macho to the nthâa lot of gay guys I know donât look or act âgay,â and some latent gays overcompensate with hypermasculinity. Billy stuck to George like glue, and was more interested in watching him on the dance floor than watching me, and they went to the menâs room together a few times. Wow. Iâd never thought about it before, but now I figured either they were doing coke in the john, or Billy was trying to cop an ogle at the urinals or something.
Come to think of it, George must have picked up on that weird vibe from Billy too, I thought. At Cafe Buñuel, he had whispered something in
âSomeone else was in asking about the envelope,â the young man said.
âWho?â
âA woman in a green wig and Groucho glasses, but she couldnât answer the question,â he said.
âHmmm. Thanks,â I said, and took my coffee to a little round marble table.
Inside the envelope, there was another cootie catcher, a photo, and half a dollar bill. The typed note inside the cootie catcher said, âWait for contact.â That was it.
The half dollar bill had French handwriting on it. George had spoken to me in French again here, and at that point, to cover my ass, Iâd told him that I read French better than I spoke it, though I did neither. He wrote something on a dollar bill and handed it to me.
âWhat does it say?â Billy had asked.
âMay all your dreams come true,â George had said. âItâs good luck.â
After nodding stupidly, as if I knew what heâd written, I took the dollar and put it in my purse. George said something else to me in French, and when I didnât answer, he winked again, and started talking in English. The thing about the dollar bill was, later that night, when we got back to the hotel, I ripped it in half and gave half to Julie so we could each have some of the good luck contained therein. The plan was, we would tape the dollar together the next time we came to New York and spend it on something for both of us. Somehow, we believed this would activate the good luck and make our wishes come true.
Now I had a little French under my belt, and I could read the partial sentence on this half-dollar.
âIl essaie â¦â it said. He is trying.
How strange. I wondered what the second half of the dollar bill said. I had it tucked away somewhere.
The photo, which showed Julie with George in front of the old Cafe Buñuel, stopped me cold. I looked more closely at it. You know how sometimes you see a movie you first saw a long time ago, and you recognize a now famous actor in it? When you watched it the first time, he or she was unknown, and so he or she didnât really register with you. The supporting or minor character played by the now famous person appears larger, and the movie takes on a whole different dimension.
Well, thatâs how I felt when I looked at the photo. I recognized George from somewhere other than that night, somewhere since. George was smiling broadly for the camera, his arm around Julie.
The photo was of poor quality, but as I remembered it, both George and Billy were good-looking in a swarthy kind of way, George a bit taller with distinctive flaring nostrils, Billy a bit plumper with a piggy nose. I couldnât be sure. There were no pictures of Billy, and I couldnât for the life of me fix his face in my mind.
A couple of years after that trip, when I was older and wiser, etc., I figured that Billy was camera-shy because he was probably married. He didnât wear a ring, but lots of men didnât, and donât, even today.
Now I wondered if Billy wasnât secretly gay. Though he didnât look gayâhe was macho to the nthâa lot of gay guys I know donât look or act âgay,â and some latent gays overcompensate with hypermasculinity. Billy stuck to George like glue, and was more interested in watching him on the dance floor than watching me, and they went to the menâs room together a few times. Wow. Iâd never thought about it before, but now I figured either they were doing coke in the john, or Billy was trying to cop an ogle at the urinals or something.
Come to think of it, George must have picked up on that weird vibe from Billy too, I thought. At Cafe Buñuel, he had whispered something in
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