Look Away Silence (16 page)

“Pumpkin, I love the voices, but not for fourteen
days in a row.”

So we pinpointed a few performances — Turtle Creek,
of course, the New York City and Seattle, and managed to get a
ticket for the Corigliano memorial piece. Matt was a planner, but I
had asked him to set that aside here. Otherwise I would be on a
schedule all day and then on one all night. We had daily rehearsal
until noon, except on the Wednesday of the second week, the day
before our performances. Therefore, we earmarked a car rental and a
trip up to the Rockies on that day. It would be our little vacation
of vacations and would be interesting as we were sharing the rental
with Russ, Padgett and Tim. (Russ had lassoed Tim. Our accompanist
was tall, and Russ liked the big drinks of water).

Evenings were spent bar hopping. Denver had many and
some fine restaurants too. There was even a place that served
rattlesnake and buffalo chops. Not for me, honey, but Matt devoured
them up. He was feeling better — getting his land legs. With the
Rodeo in town, I expected we would go to a dust up, but it never
happened. We were just too busy. However, there were cowboys
everywhere and they were seeking buckaroo broncos. My man’s cowboy
hat was a magnet, the
yippykayays
tripping by him in full
cruise mode in every gay establishment in town. I was proud of him.
He was civil, tipped his hat and then flashed his wedding ring.
That usually bought us a round and a
shooting-the-breeze
session before the wrangler moved on to the next corral.

One evening we returned to the hotel to see two
cowboys locked in a lip embrace in the lobby. It was shocking — not
to us, but there was an Hispanic Christian youth convention at the
hotel, and there was more than one flurry of
maricones
uttered from parental lips. However, this display brought on a
harangue from one mamacita, who chastised the couple publicly. When
the cowboys disengaged, I was amused to see that one of them was
our very own Brian, the Librarian. While his
pardner
cowered
to the wagging parental finger, Brian puffed his chest.

“Haven’t you ever seen
The Midnight Cowboy
?”
he asked in his Spartan choppy voice. “I suggest you rent it
tonight and give me a report in the morning.”

The woman was speechless. Her mouth carped open. The
lobby froze like the ballet scene from
An American in Paris
.
I believe we were more shocked in our recognition that cowboys
making out in public were less dangerous than lighting the fuse of
our bi-polar music librarian. The woman retreated, and so did the
other cowboy. No amount of smooching was worth this. Perhaps the
mamacita
did him a favor.

The Denver Gay Pride Parade was set for Saturday,
which I thought was unusual as most Gay Pride Parades were on
Sundays. I had marched in a couple in my day. New Jersey had its
annual Pride event in Asbury Park, because our political machine
was dominated by the lesbian contingent and Asbury Park is Lesbo
Haven. The New Jersey Parade has always been a small affair,
marching in organizational units through the residential areas,
passed the
Faggots Go to Hell
banners on the sidelines. Then
we needed to traipse within view of Ocean Grove, a religious right
enclave that never failed to shun us with banners draped over the
embankments across the tidal basin. Then on to the boardwalk and
our festival site — weenies, burgers, booth after booth of every
kind of gay organization and their ware. Typical stuff. Then a
subset of the Jersey Sparrows would stand on the narrow track stage
and warble a few tunes from our last concert.

Of course, I also marched in the New York Gay Pride
Parade. Now that’s the big one with nearly two million people
showing up — New York’s largest and grandest parade running the
full length of Fifth Avenue right down to Washington Square Park.
None of this Macy’s terminal business. It was huge and wild and
safe. It had more topless womyn and more bottomless men that a
Roman orgy under Caracalla. We also had a better class of bigot.
They would line the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and turn their
backs on us. I suspect they sneaked some mirrors into their group
to get a better view of the many cracked moons that saluted them.
There was a memorial minute of silence, when the cacophony fell
suddenly and died away to nothing, the only time that silence
overwhelmed Manhattan Island. The after parties were many, crowded
and lasted long past midnight. The fireworks over the Hudson were
brilliant and the Empire State Building was lit pink. It was an odd
feeling attending New York’s Gay Pride Parade. The whole world
seemed gay and you were in the spirit of the majority. You needed
to remember to cruise back to reality when the sun came up.

Now Denver’s was somewhere between the two. We
congregated in Breckenridge Park, unfurling our banners. With one
hundred and ten choruses in the parade, we would swell the event by
two thirds. It was a simple affair. There were no marching bands —
no dancing Dorothys or contingencies of gay Police, Fireman or
danseurs
. Just local organizations and one hundred and ten
GALA Choruses. Who needed bands? We would all sing numbers from our
concert along the route. Most of those who lined it wouldn’t be
attending the concerts anyway. So there were no spoilers.

“Martin,” came a husky cry.

I turned. We had found them. The Erastes Errata.

“Ginger,” I cried.

Soon Leslie was beside her, sporting the biggest
Vote No on Proposition 2
sign I had seen thus far.

“I thought you guys never made it,” I said. “Matt,
look who’s here.”

Matt was preoccupied by a bevy of topless musclemen,
a gay body building class that rippled under the morning sun. I
didn’t blame him for looking. They were nice eye candy and would,
evidently, be the group directly in front of our contingent. Matt
greeted the girls with a hug.

“Where’ve been hiding for a week?”

“I saw you guys on the schedule, but wondered . .
.”

“They stuck us in the burbs,” Leslie said.

“In Aurora,” Ginger barked. “It’s so fucking far
from Boettcher and the nightlife, I’ve a good mind to
complain.”

“That’s all you’ve done since we’ve arrived.”

“Sorry if I’m not so willing to lie down and take
it.”

“She’s in a mood.”

“Don’t you say it,” Ginger said, “or I’ll hit you
over the head with that big fucking sign.”

“Now, now ladies,” I said. “You’re spoiling the
reunion.”

“I don’t know why we need to march in this parade,
anyway,” Ginger said.

“To support the good gay citizens of Colorado,” Matt
replied.

“A lot of good that’ll do,” Leslie said. “Ginger’s
right. They’ve become complacent.”

Now I was surprised. Leslie was rarely critical of
any gay political initiative.

“How can it hurt?” I snapped, deciding that it was
time to line up behind the gym bunnies and boogie on down the
avenue.

“It can’t hurt,” Leslie said. “But the Gay Coalition
has overestimated their support and underestimated the Colorado
Springs denizens. They’ve become complacent.”

“So let’s just go for brunch and some drinks,”
Ginger suggested.

Leslie crossed her eyes and sighed.

“No. I believe we must all go down with the
ship.”

“See you later, fellas,” Ginger said. However, she
didn’t high tail it out of the park, but returned to the ranks of
the Erastes Errata.

“I don’t know why I put up with her,” Leslie
said.

“Sure you do,” I said.

Matt looped me through my arm.

“We all must stick together,” he said. “No matter
what.”

Leslie smiled, and then frowned, her brow curling.
She placed her hand on Matt’s cheek, and then sniffed.

“No matter what,” she said.

So we marched down the avenue — singing, chanting,
and waving our banners and placards. We sang on the steps of City
Hall. We took over the civic park with a festival, merry and gay.
However, in the end, Leslie was right. When the voters assembled in
August, they voted for Proposition 2, disenfranchising the gay
citizens of Colorad
oe
and, although it was overturned as
unconstitutional a year later, we all learned a lesson. Take
nothing for granted and that Leslie is generally right, drat the
woman.

I must admit a terrible truth. No matter how many
times I’ve had my heart broken and plummeted down into the depths
of depression, I was never traumatized to the point where I didn’t
think that it could be remedied by a nice shopping spree. Call me
shallow, or perhaps naïve. Whenever I wept into Viv’s shoulder and
she patted my head like her pet dog, whispering
You did it
again, shithead. You did it again
, I never thought beyond my
own fleeting heartbreak. It was like eating bad Chinese food. You
gagged, threw up and then took a Bromo-seltzer or the pink crap.
All would be good in the morning. Therefore, it was hard for me to
fathom the depths of Matt’s heartbreak for Luis. I did what I did
best — put it aside.

Let’s not analyze this. It is what it is and the
pink crap will make it go away. Either that or a quick romp through
the linen department.

I mention this because, after the Parade was behind
us, the Remembrance concert loomed. I looked forward to it, because
I love the Corigliano sound, especially with the composer on the
podium, conducting. According to the promotional material, the
Seattle Gay Men’s Chorus would be an integral part of the piece. So
as Sunday morning progressed, I attended to some sink laundry —
socks and delicates. However, Matt mooned about the room, gazing
out the window at the little muddy river that flowed between the
new stadium and us. I supposed he was missing his computer. This
was the longest time he had been separated from the electronic
beasts since last summer, and that was only for a week. At least I
had something to wash, wring and drape over the shower bar.

“Matt,” I asked, hugging him from behind. “Are you
still suffering from jet-lag?”

“No, Pumpkin,” he said. “I was just trying to decide
whether I want to stay in today.”

“Tired from the Parade?”

We had been out late, shuffling from the karaoke bar
to the western bar to the collegiate hangout. We drank a lot and
all three places were suffocating, hot and smoky. Padgett and Todd
had a fight. Not a fist fight, although that would have been a
diversion. Padgett had staked out his territory at the collegiate
bar, where a host of twinks watered like gazelles at an oasis.
Padgett had his eye on a tenor from Taos, New Mexico, who was
sprouting more than his share of cactus. It seems that just as
Padgett went in for the kill, Todd intervene with a story about his
vacation to Sedona.
Spirit cleansing this
and
Historical
significance that.
It sufficiently engaged the twink, who
probably missed his stretch of dessert. Padgett glared at Todd with
all the grace of a puma about to spring. We all watched this action
and knew that when the New Mexican abandoned Todd, which he
inevitably would (everyone else had), that Padgett would launch
into a tirade that we’d remember for the next two seasons.

“You and your travel logs,” Padgett spit.

“You should get out more,” Todd responded.

“I’m out now, or have you missed that fact.”

“I miss nothing, dear.”

“Don’t
dear
me, you bitch. You saw my action.
Don’t deny it.”

“I deny nothing.”

That’s when the drink flew, baptizing Todd
Moorehouse with some sticky concoction that included peppermint
schnapps. Todd growled. Padgett seethed. We all moved closer,
because the floorshow was about to begin. It was classic, Todd
promenading around the dance floor in a queenly circle followed by
a haranguing Padgett. This continued until Todd reached his own
drink and returned the splash, this time in Padgett’s face.

“You’ve blinded me.”

“Grow up,” Todd said. “It’s only alcohol. It’s good
for your eyes.”

Padgett stretched to his full height, a tornado
about to be unleashed. However, the tenor from Taos intervened. He
took Padgett’s hand, dragging him onto the dance floor. There
Padgett did a chicken dance, constantly glaring at Todd, who spit
bullets from the sideline, babbling about cretins and ignorant
yokels. Little did he know, he was insulting most of the
yokels
around him. It was quite a floorshow.

“No, the Parade was fine,” Matt said. “Liked it, in
fact. And those ditzy hyenas at the bar last night were worth the
trip. Naw. I’m worried about today’s concert.”

I figured as much, but had avoided that
suggestion.

“It’s just music,” I said.

I thought to acquiesce and let him stay here.
However, this trip was principally about me, even though I was
committed to this man. Viv had taught me how to throw
guilt
with skill

“If you want,” I said. “If you really, really want
to stay back, I’ll stay with you. I understand.”

“No, you go. You’ve been looking forward to it.”

“No. I wanted you to hear this composer’s work. It’s
a special piece, I hear, and Corigliano is conducting it . . . live
. . . in person. Well, it wouldn’t be the same without you.”

I was such a bitch. I knew he’d relent and I did not
intend to stay back. Why are we such manipulative creatures? I
mean, we get one life each to play like a fiddle. Why do we need to
grab someone else’s bow and play our own concerto on their
instrument? We could call it sharing, but no two people are so
connected that their little ray of independent sunshine cannot be
devoured by the pall of the midnight soul.

“I’ll go,” he said.

He sighed. I immediately felt bad, and could have
stated the other option, but didn’t. I wanted him there. Perhaps,
in my twisted fairy mind, I thought the pain would help ease him.
The concert wasn’t dedicated to bashed drag queens, but death is
death. I really had no notion about it, because death was beneath
my radar, but if Matt needed to reach closure on Luis, perhaps the
mournful tones of Corigliano would do it. Then he could have a good
cry and we’d have a good talk and then . . . Luis would disappear
from the scene. That was it. That was the down deep reason I
steered Matt’s ship into this harbor. I don’t regret it, even to
this day, although I didn’t realize the breadth of the shoreline or
the width of the dock. I wish I had. I might have taken a different
bearing.