Come Back (21 page)

King was so obsessed with his own celebrity, or lack of it, that he embarked on a suicide mission, filling himself with booze and poppers and, presumably, cum. In these letters he predicts the manner of his own death, for in fact he did die, as he told his friend he wished, of a heart attack in a bathhouse hot tub. He was found the next day. He had been dead for twenty-four hours. The sanitation crew in those gay bathhouses was sometimes lax. One wonders what might have happened to a body in a whirlpool for twenty-four hours. Pickled? Burned to death? Impeccably preserved?

Now, I don't know if I agree that Barbara Pym was a whore, or whether being a whore would make her a good writer. But I certainly agree that the political correctness that characterized turn-of-the-century politics served to undeservedly demonize Philip Larkin. But if you're trying to understand my affection for King, or searching for some deep emotional identification I might have with him — it may just be coming clear.

He is, for me, a project. Because I, unlike you, think — cyber-realities or not — that King is a symbol of the ironic triumph of post-structuralism and postmodernism. King's life proves how the murderousness of living a fantastical, mythical, ultimately
virtual
life — his just happened to centre on a suicidal paradigm of homosexuality — could kill a person
in reality.
Are you going to argue about whether or not Dash really existed? It's not really here nor there, though, is it? Because the matter of his life, the lingering detritus, the trash of his extant papers, still exists for me to analyze.

I did go back to the Tranquility Spa. I am going to tell you more about that place; I have to. There are . . . revelations. You need to hear them because you have become too cool and philosophical. And though you were always both cool and philosophical, there is now something missing. There is a subtext to your last diatribe. It is present in all its formal aspects.

If I transmit an avalanche of words and, yes, memories now, it is because I have nothing left to lose. Yet I do not want to lose you. And I do not wish our discussions to become purely academic. What could be worse? I don't even have to write a thesis. Sometimes I think I am writing it only so as not to be forgotten by you. I have gone through so many drafts. You have been at times scornful of my efforts. Well, maybe not of my efforts — though it occasionally feels that way. But you have been scornful of my results. You must always be uncompromising and yet always insist that you love me. Maybe it's only that — maybe it's only that you don't say that you love me enough. This makes me sound very much like myself . . . but who else can I be?

Okay, my final trip to the Tranquility Spa. I say final only because it seems to me that you will stop being my friend if I ever go again. That's what you've managed to communicate, between the lines. (Am I wrong? You must simply tell me.) But I don't know if I can stop going there. Are you asking me to choose between you and the Tranquility Spa? You haven't so much said it as you have implied it.

Jesus, I don't know what to do.

Do you know what I did? Do you know what really happened that night with Mark? The problem with all addiction programs is that they come at you with shit like “Drugs are bad! Drugs are unpleasant! Gee, no one wants to do drugs!” Excuse me, but
everyone
wants to do them. Who doesn't ? Maybe June Allyson? Yes, of course — they hold off oblivion and death by offering pseudo-oblivion and death, one that is ultimately connected to the real thing. But they also happen to be really fun. They are fun in
reality
. The kind of fantasy that drugs offer are
of the body
, not cyberspace. In this way, they are real.

Well, on the night in question I was on a binge with Mark. It was the end of our relationship, the beginning of Mickey. And the reason I found Mickey was because of that night, because of what happened. Mark was on about shit that evening. Jesus, he was a disappointment. At first, you know, I thought he was “the one.” After Sid, he seemed like a revelation. But, of course, he was an actor, or fancied himself one, and I just could not be romantically involved with an actor any longer.

Do you know the difference between a good actor and a bad actor? In real life you can always tell. A bad actor is trying to act all the time in his real life — trying to be flamboyant, bursting with personality, being sweet and charming, or aloof and intense. A real actor wears all these masks, too, but
not because he wants to
. Take me, for instance. It isn't that I am a person who loves impersonation and performance to such an extent that I must, at every moment of my life, be the central, dazzling, spinning figure. No, it's simply that I impersonate, perform, entertain
all the time.
Even when I don't wish to do it. In fact, one of the reasons I used to self-medicate was to stop myself from performing. Of course, it didn't work like that at first. At first when I got high, I would perform as if on steroids. But then would come exhaustion and oblivion — and I would finally stop singing for my supper. And with that came a tremendous relief. The bad actor, in real life — you cannot miss him once I tell you how to spot him — is always trying, unsuccessfully, to appear uncontrollably vivacious, unhinged, madcap and overwhelming. He is not, however, actually compelled by his personality to be that way. Mark was like that. He had lots of
personality.
But that personality was a mask he was making an effort to assume — in order to be part of “the Club.”

Yes, I call it the Club — which I know sounds elitist. But really — apologies to Groucho Marx — it is a club that you'd really rather not be part of. When we used to hang out in the old days, with people involved in the entertainment industry, it was always evident that there were some who were members of the Club and some who were not. The members of the Club were people like me, Montgomery Clift, Marlene — people who were possessed with the need to be onstage twenty-four hours a day. Who knows how it happened or what particular disease we had — or whether we caught it in vitro. We were not
trying
to be special; we just were. It was a cross we had to bear. True, we had learned to make a living out of what was really a disability: the inability to be real. But the only thing we could do, many of us, was simply to get so smashed that we spun out into the night, laughing, talking and performing, until we collapsed. Elaine Stritch was like this. There were other members of the Club who somehow dealt with their infirmities without drugs. Noël Coward was one. I don't know how he did it.

Then there were those on the periphery. People who were not so very talented but were so beautiful and charming that we didn't care they weren't talented. People like Dean Martin and Elizabeth Taylor. Then there were the
somewhat
talented people who worked very hard. June Allyson was one of those. They were often God-fearing, and I was generally afraid of them — for good reason. And then there were the hangers-on. These were people who urgently and passionately dreamed of being members of the Club. But they knew that they weren't and never would be. However, they were still possessed with becoming a member. So they performed in real life with a furious urgency that was beyond compare. It was very pitiful to watch, and I imagine very tiring to sustain. Now, at first I thought that Mark was a Dean Martin — someone beautiful and charming we would allow to sit in on the fringes. People like that never really care about being
in
the Club, because they always get more attention than they can handle anyway. But I gradually began to realize that Mark was not a Club member at all. Instead, he was one of the most unappealing and grasping of those who spend every waking moment trying to be a part of it.

All this became clear one crazy night when I got into several bizarre fights. Soon after that I broke up with Mark and found Mickey. With Mickey I could be
blissfully quiet
, whereas with Mark I never could. I never before experienced the kind of silence I first discovered with Mickey. It was pure acceptance. It may have been due to his unmatchable passivity, but it was Zen-like. There was something about him that would not be moved by life, or shaken by it. He would just live. He taught me all this — at least, he made me realize it was possible.

Anyway, hanging out with Mark had become a trial. He and I became more frenzied in our evenings, purposefully crowding them with incident. It was a way of not being alone with each other. When I was alone with him, I would become disgusted and angry. I would want to shake his big curly head and say, “Stop trying! You're never going to get into the Club! And you would be such an attractive non-member! And maybe you're even pretty and charming enough to be an honorary member!” But no, he would never understand that. So he spent every day insanely organizing the evening, trying to find things to do when I wasn't performing. This was so we might have a sparkling, unforgettable time — an evening that would make me happy. But nothing ever worked.

When I woke up, he was sitting on the bed at the Barbizon — newspapers scattered around, with coffee and crumpets on a tray at his side. It always amazed him — and me — how deeply I was capable of sleeping. It shouldn't have amazed us, considering all the downers I took before dropping into my nightly coma. And when I woke — which was the oddest thing to do in my condition, like being hit by a truck — it wasn't the gentle feeling one normally associates with greeting the morning. It wasn't stirring, murmuring, curling out of the covers and gradually acclimatizing oneself to the dewy morning light. Suddenly my eyes were open, looking at everything, and seeing everything, and it hurt like hell.

Mark was sitting on my bed in his dressing gown, looking tousled and ravishing, as he always did. No fault there, no fault there ever. And when my eyes suddenly sprang open, he — though I had told him not to — flicked on the desk light. I thought I was going to die. Was he hoping for a dramatic effect? Well, he got one. The morning didn't start well, beginning with me yelling at him to turn off the light. Actually, I suppose it was more of a moan. I could never have managed to yell. He did turn off the light, and turned towards me. I told him to always give me at least a few minutes to get accustomed to life again after being trapped at the bottom of the deep, dark well. Eventually I propped myself up and managed a sip of coffee. He said, “The Allen Brothers are playing tonight at the Schubert.”

I was surprised. I had only seen them in Los Angeles and always expected them, for some reason, to appear only on the West Coast. And the fact was, I had not
really
seen them. I had been very drunk and had only caught the last few minutes of their act. But from the little of him that I had witnessed, I had fallen in love with Peter Allen. I mean, literally in love. He was a member of the Club
for sure
. In fact, he was the Club personified. There would be no stopping him even if he put his mind to destroy himself. And there's something about that kind of talent, which — even though I understand the possibilities of tragedy and the suffering latent in it — I do very much enjoy. I knew he had
to be a kindred spirit.

When I had fully understood what Mark was offering, I said, “Yes, of course we must go.” It was nearly five o'clock; this was when my day began. So it meant three hours of getting ready. And that always seemed like not enough time. I did take a pill or two, even though I didn't like to do too many before dinner. Though dinner at that time was just a salad, I knew I had to eat
something
. So somehow I got my skinny ass out of there and into a cab with Mark and we were at the Schubert Theatre just before curtain.

It was amazing seeing them when I wasn't high. I'd had a few uppers to get me dressed, that was all. And the act had such an effect on me that I didn't drink at the bar during the intermission, which made Mark insecure. The other Allen brother — I can never remember his name — was not as memorable as Peter. He certainly was very pretty and charming and taller. And looked as if he might be a charming-type member of the Club. But Peter was on fire — I mean, when he picked up those maracas it was terminally infectious. And the ballads — I can't even talk about the ballads. I rarely see shit like that. They really made me want to cry. I
so
wanted him to write me a song. And, of course, he didn't need to be all
that
good. It was a one-night-only gig — a Thursday night on an off week. But I could tell he was the kind of performer who just couldn't help being brilliant. He was definitely singing for his supper. But the place wasn't sold out, as no one knew much about them. Peter and his brother were Australian, after all.

So after the show I ran ahead of Mark to the dressing room. I think he was put out by the intensity of my fascination with Peter. On the other hand, Mark knew my passion for
him
was definitely on the wane. I did my usual thing of shyly knocking. I mean, there's no way I would ever force myself on anyone. And my desire to see Peter was so huge that I thought it might be embarrassing if I didn't control myself.

They let us in when the boys were in their underwear because I was
who I was
. And the glimpse of those two lithe lovely furry things (they were both appealingly hairy) bounding about and smoking and dipping into the after-show Scotch (which soon we
all
dipped into) had me very excited. I noticed that Peter did all the talking, and that was obviously okay with both of them. And Peter was so obviously a member of the Club, a wacky, too-intense energy in his eyes, and a vulnerability that he obviously did not find easy to control, but did. Of course, he was a fucking hoot — filthy, dirty, going on about his own dick and his brother's in their underwear — and who had the bigger one. His brother did, by the way. I found this interesting. And I had a feeling that Peter knew I found it interesting. His brother was also possibly straight, or at least one of those people for whom sexuality was not an issue. This also I found tantalizing.