LOVE AND THE EPIDEMIC by Bruce K Beck ©2018
Chapter One
Scooter was particularly insistent that morning. He twirled and made soft growly noises that gradually grew louder as no one noticed that he wanted very much to go outside. Bobby was still sound asleep, but the performance was enough to get my attention. I sleepily dragged myself out of bed and opened the garden door for poor Scooter. I felt a little blast of winter cold on my naked body. It was refreshing. Therapeutic even. Shit! Ten o’clock already! I thought.
And then all Hell broke loose. Scooter let out a full-throated howl that showed no signs of stopping. I ran to the window and looked out. And there, in the middle of the garden, was a huge orange cat. Or rather, the body of a huge orange cat, now flattened and motionless on the slate tiles. I threw on a robe and slippers and dashed out to coax Scooter back into the apartment. It took some doing to break his obsession with the intruder, but before long I got him back in and mercifully quiet.
Bobby was roused by the commotion, of course. “You’re not going to believe what’s in our garden,” I said.
“You’re being mysterious,” he said.
“No, really. You have to look.”
Bobby went to the window and peered out. “Jesus Christ!” he said. “What a way to start the new year.”
It seemed so unlikely. Cats are so, well, capable. I would almost have been less surprised to see a New Year’s Eve reveler of the two-legged variety flattened in our garden. That had logic on its side. I dispensed with analysis and threw on some clothes. It was only one short hallway to the lobby, where the doorman would certainly have a handle on this.
“Tom, there’s a dead cat in the garden,” I said, quietly.
“Ouch! Poor Mr. Segal in 14F. He’s frantically looking all over the building for his cat. He should check in here again pretty soon. Can I send him to your apartment?” Tom asked.
“Of course,” I answered, and headed back. Bobby was in the kitchen putting the kettle on for coffee. “The owner should be here any minute to collect the body,” I warned. “Segal, in 14F.”
“I thought cats survived falls like that. Fourteen floors shouldn’t be such a challenge. Maybe it was sick. Or old. Let’s not go there.” Bobby finished the brewing, and we sipped our coffee in silence. He thought to go to the linen closet and pull out an old towel, to use as a shroud. And then came the horrible knock on our door. I grabbed Scooter and quieted him while Bobby went to the door and admitted our neighbor, who was visibly shaken and choking back sobs. Bobby led him to the bedroom and out to the garden. Scooter and I followed as far as the garden door. Segal identified the body and began to sob in earnest.
Bobby handed him the towel to wrap the corpse in. “Keep it,” Bobby said. And then Segal managed a quiet thank-you before scooping up the body and heading back to his apartment to grieve. “I wish we hadn’t invited people over this afternoon,” Bobby said.
“Tell me,” I said. We had twelve guests coming for a New Year’s Day buffet. Roast fresh ham, collards, and Hoppin’ John. I had made a green tomato chow-chow that fall: When the first frost threatens, farmers and gardeners alike pull the green fruit from the vines and sell it off to home-canners and other crazies, like me, who lovingly convert it into a relish that brings a touch of summer to the table even in the dead of winter. I was proud to be able to offer it. Cornbread, and a real banana pudding to round out the meal. Everything guaranteed to bring health and prosperity for the new year. “Looks like we’re going to need all the good luck we can gather this year,” I said.
“Lucky we’re neither of us superstitious. Are we?” Bobby asked.
“Of course not.” I answered, without much conviction. So, there I was, nervous, with a nervous dog, a nervous husband, a heart-broken neighbor, and about five hours to pull things together to receive twelve friends I hoped would feel relaxed and warmly welcome. I had done much of the cooking the day before, so I even considered going back to bed for an hour, to try to restart our day.
But reason won out, and Bobby and I began to lay out the buffet things and get organized. I stopped to make two grilled cheese sandwiches (what is more comforting?). Good bread, good cheese, and good butter would have been enough, of course, but I couldn’t resist adding a few very thin slices of plum tomato and a slice of leftover cooked bacon to each sandwich. We had a bite of lunch and a stiff vodka. They both helped.
As I figured out the design for our buffet I thought to myself, Shit! Another New Year’s Day. How is that even possible? Should I be taking inventory or something? Almost ten years, I reflected, since our glorious summer in Provincetown. Where did those years go? Can I account for them? What have I done? What have I learned? Where am I now?
You wrote a book, I reminded myself. And so I did. And a few magazine articles. And hundreds of teaching recipes. You show up for work, even early sometimes, and you give it your all. Well, at least you do a professional job at all times. People like you. They take one of your classes and come back for more.
I looked over at Bobby, who was busy dusting and vacuuming, fluffing cushions and checking tabletops for smudges. I loved watching him when he was absorbed and didn’t see my stare. It was most often when he was working at the piano, but he focused intently on even the more mundane tasks. I thought how much I still adored Bobby after our ten years together, and how much I loved my life.
Wouldn’t you know I’d choose a Southern theme for our holiday feast! What the hell was I doing there? Back there! What did the South have to offer me? As I returned to the kitchen to finish up the food prep, I felt some twinges going through my body. I don’t have flashbacks, or at least not in the psychotic sense, I hope. But now and then I am visited by shades of childhood. No, not shades, sparks! Little explosions of light like jagged knife blades. Like the aura that signals a migraine that will take complete control of my body unless I fend it off. With drugs, mostly. And, of course, alcohol is a powerful one—sometimes for good and sometimes for ill.
Whenever I see screen depictions of war, the hapless victims who can’t get out of the way of the bombs or bullets always make me think, Yeah, that’s about right. That’s how childhood felt. Sometimes I could see it coming, and sometimes not. But, either way. . . . And I was one of the lucky ones! My parents didn’t beat me, or starve me, or deprive me. I had it good, by most standards. But I felt desperately alone, and uncertain if I could ever wake up from the nightmare.
Does everyone feel the white heat of humiliation from childhood? No one ever called me a Nigger, or a WOP, or a Kike, or a Chink, or a Jap, or even a Faggot, for that matter. Well, not back then. But I feel it. I feel a circle of fresh young bodies and sweet faces around me, taunting me. A chorus assembled solely for the purpose of ridicule. It’s the betrayal, I think. It’s the moment when a friend becomes a tormentor. It’s not even so much about the importance of the secrets revealed as it is about confidence breached. It’s the deliberate cruelty (isn’t that what Tennessee Williams called it?).
Look, I know I was not the Jewish kid whose best friend joined the Hitler Youth and turned him in. I know I didn’t have dinner one night with our Serbian next-door neighbors, only to see them a part of the Croat round-up the next day. I get it. I can’t equate the experiences. And perhaps that’s part of why I’ve spent so many years sweeping the pain under the carpet. Except, of course, inevitably—it’s still there! It doesn’t go away on its own any more than the dirt under the rug does.
As I look back on the 1980s, I’m amazed by all the dinners I staged. We must have had a dinner party nearly every week. Nothing elaborate, usually, just a couple of friends over for drinks and a bite. Farther into the decade, I grew busier and less willing to commit the time to these little events. But in the mid-80s, we were still host central. It’s how we socialized. And how we did business, sometimes, too. Restaurants were for occasions, out-of-town guests, and those now and then pre- or post-theater get togethers. But the meat-and-potatoes of it was people entertaining at home. And we drank. A lot.
I loved it. I came from a household where there was absolutely no entertaining. Out-of-town family were fed, of course, and Mother had to host her garden club about twice a year. That meant instant coffee served from one of those glass carafes with the gold trim sitting on a brass wire stand with a warming-candle (and to this day I’m awed by them when I see them at the flea market. And I do). And something to eat, of course. But I have no memory of what that was, exactly. I know my mother never crafted a tea sandwich in my presence. Or anything else of the sort. I don’t know what she served.
I knew something was missing. And when I finally grew up—perhaps—enough to be on my own, I noticed right away that gay boys entertained! I learned later that the gay entertaining movement—like so many other social movements—got off to a bumpy start: The boys did not know how to cook. And so they did the same thing that the girls did—who also didn’t know how to cook—they served Tuna Noodle Casserole. To the point that it became known as Fairy Pudding.
One of our guests, Roderick, came to me that year and suggested we collaborate on a cookbook called Beyond Fairy Pudding. I always thought it a good idea. And like so many other good ideas, it never bore fruit. But I felt blessed to be coming of age in a universe where boys did know how to cook. And I was one of them. And I rejoiced in it. And the care of my guests felt like a sacred trust that I assumed freely and totally.
I’m sure if I had a head count—which I do not—I could prove that at least as many women dined at our table that year as men. But my story is about 1986, and it is not only about love, but also about the epidemic. And while love sends my heart in several directions, the epidemic focuses me—laser-like—on those boys, those exquisite young men who passed through my life, through my orbit, through my consciousness, and sometimes through my bed, and then didn’t survive the decade.
That New Year’s Day, I sucked up my bitterness about the past, reburied it in its old plot, and got on with the business of life. When four o’clock arrived, Bobby and I were feeling festive, indeed. And as soon as a few guests had arrived, Scooter, too, seemed ready to party. Our neighbor Janet arrived first, just for a quick drink on her way to another engagement. Also stopping by for a bit of holiday cheer were our neighbors Diana and her boyfriend Chris. Diana is the one that Bobby used to refer to as the QEII, because she was English and very large. And my fellow late-night dog-walker Paula arrived with her husband James. They, too, were off to another dinner party after sharing a drink and a nibble with us.
Our dinner guests were Bobby’s old friend Geoffrey, whom he always liked to include (I was less enthusiastic about Geoff, but more on that later); an Oscar-winning actress and her Oscar-nominated husband; a good friend of Bobby’s—and frequent reciprocal dinner host—who was bringing her two college student children, a boy and a girl, who were home on holiday recess, and who were both charming and maybe a bit star-struck; two new friends from Brazil, who were quite beautiful—as all Brazilians are, of course; Roderick, mentioned before, and his boyfriend Steve; and two of the hottest men I’ve ever clapped eyes on—the dancer/choreographer Johnny Barnett and his dancer/singer mate Josh Walker.
I’ll tell you more about Johnny and Josh later, especially Josh, but for now, it’s enough to say that they were both very tall, very Black, very handsome, and very sweet. And Johnny choreographed a new dance routine that evening for Scooter, who was just as beguiled by the two as were the rest of us. It was a good mix. It was a fabulous dinner, if I do say so myself. And it was all over by ten o’clock. I think everyone was relieved that the party season ended on an up-beat and early note. I know we were. Re-entry into normal life is always difficult, but even worse when lost sleep and a hangover are factors.
Bobby and I started the cleanup and decided to see how much we could accomplish in an hour, which was considerable. I left the glassware for morning, and Bobby would have to run the vacuum, of course, but other than that, we were in good shape. Scooter got a decent walk—if not the extra-long version—and then it was off to bed and a little television. “Thanks for all your help today,” I said.
“Thank you, for a lovely dinner,” Bobby said.
“I love you, Darling,” I said.
“I love you more.”
“Happy new year,” I said.
“And to you, Sunshine.”
It felt like a successful evening, and the perfect start for a successful new year. And yet, as my head hit the pillow, I felt a little jolt of unease just behind my eyes. Mercifully, it didn’t last long. That time.