Second You Sin (7 page)

“Hi, Mom.”

“Darling,” she said, “how are you?”

“I’m fine,” I began. “I was . . .”

My mother cut me off. “That’s wonderful, darling, I’m so happy for you. Now, ask me how I am.”

“How are you?” I dutiful y asked.

“Darling, I’m going to be a star! I’m going to be on
Yvonne
!”

Although I didn’t watch her show, everyone knew who Yvonne was. Not quite an Oprah, but bigger than Tyra, Yvonne Rivera was the hot Latin American hostess of
That’s Yvonne,
a daytime talk show about, wel , Yvonne. No matter who the guest or what the topic, the center of the show’s attention was always on Yvonne. Her ful figure, throaty laugh, and often outrageous comments made her the favorite of housewives everywhere.

Yvonne’s biggest claim to fame was her genuine niceness. She was incredibly warm and empathic, and whether she was sitting on the couch with Julia Roberts or a woman who sold crystal meth to preschoolers, you could tel Yvonne real y cared.

The thought of my mother on
That’s Yvonne
fil ed me with dread. What could the topic be? “Women Who Scare Their Kids to Death”? “Ten Ways to Make Your Children Neurotic”? “My Son’s a Male Prostitute”? I shivered and wrapped the towel around me.

“That’s, wow, that’s just . . . So what are you going to be doing on the show?”

“Hair!” my mother enthused. “They’re doing a series of makeovers for Yvonne and I’ve been chosen to give her one of my Mile High specials!” My mother owned the, in my opinion, tastelessly named Sophie’s Choice Tresses, one of Long Island’s premier beauty parlors for women of a certain age who wanted hairstyles that have been out of favor for at least thirty years. Her Mile High special was an impossibly tal beehive that she was able to coax from even half-bald clients like Mrs.

Shingles, my third grade teacher, who once said to me, “Your mother makes me feel like I’m ten feet tal !”

No,
I wanted to tel her,
that’s just your hair.

The idea that someone like Yvonne would even want one of my mother’s towering creations seemed preposterous. The only people who wore their hair like that were eighty-year-old women and drag queens. Either Yvonne was a lot older than she looked, or she had a cock. More likely, the selection had been made by a producer who hated her.

“That’s great,” I said. “You must be excited.”

“You
have to
come to the taping,” my mother said.

“Promise me. I wanted Kara there, but she told me she’d bring the boys, and there’s no way I’m having my TV debut ruined by those three little monsters.” I loved them to death, but my sister’s triplets
were
infamously wild.

“When is it?” I asked.

“Tuesday! They’re coming to the shop at eight in the morning to set up and
Yvonne
”—my mother whispered the name as if addressing a deity—“is coming around noon. Can you believe it! In just two days, I’m going to be a star!”

I expected that my mother had an exaggerated sense of what one appearance on
That’s Yvonne
was going to do for her career, but she was never one to let reality distort her view of the world.

“That’s seems like it came together pretty fast,” I said.

“
I know,
” my mother squealed. “The producer I spoke to told me they had another stylist cancel on them and needed to make arrangements right away!”

My mother wouldn’t normal y settle for being anyone’s second choice, but I guessed Yvonne was special.

“Dad must be excited,” I said.

“Your father.” My mother’s voice was flat. “Your father.” She paused and took a deep breath, as if gathering the strength to tel me some long-held secret that threatened to tear our family apart.

“Your father,” she final y hissed, “didn’t even know who Yvonne
is.
When I tried to explain that this could be my big break, he told me, ‘Sophie, you’re an old lady. The only big break you’re going to get at this point is, God forbid, your hip.’”

I let a little laugh escape before clamping my hand over my mouth.

“Oh sure,” my mother responded, “very funny. But you wait and see—Yvonne is probably going to ask me to be her personal stylist before the day is over.”

“I bet she wil .”

“Oh,” my mother added. “I almost forgot to tel you.

That producer who cal ed me? He said he knows you.”

I didn’t think I knew anyone who worked for America’s third-rated talk show, but I asked his name.

“I wrote it down, hold on. Wait, here it is—Andrew Mil er. Ring a bel ?”

The bel s were silent. “Nope.”

“Nothing?” my mother asked.

I thought for a moment. “No, sorry.”

“Could he have been someone you, oh, how do I put this delicately?” She hummed to herself in consideration. “Maybe one night, at a bar or a park .

. .”

“Mom!”

“Or maybe the beach? On the subway? Wel , not
on
the subway,” she continued, as she couldn’t see my pained expression, “but someone you
met
on the subway. Or in a men’s room, like that Republican senator . . .”

“I’m going to hang up,” I shouted. I had to speak up as I was holding the phone at arm’s length from my ear.

“Al right, al right,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re so sensitive about, though. I’m a hairdresser, darling. I know what you people do.”

“What ‘you people’? I’m your son; I’m not from Mars.”

“The gays, darling. I went to that PFLAG meeting once. I know the score.”

“Listen,” I said. “I’ve never had sex in a bar, or in a park or a bathroom or, for that matter, on the subway. Half the time, I can’t even get a seat on the subway, let alone . . . oh, never mind.” I was hoping she missed that I didn’t deny the beach.

“Darling, it’s the lifestyle. I understand these things.

You forget your mother is a very sophisticated woman.”

“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m . . . easy,” I pointed out petulantly.

“I’m not accusing you of anything.” My mother attempted to be conciliatory. “There’s nothing wrong with a little kink. Once, on the Long Island ferry, your father and I snuck into the . . .”

I hung up the phone, counted to ten, got a pen, and cal ed her back. “Sorry, I hit the wrong button with my chin.”

“That’s al right, darling. I was just going to tel you about the time your father and I . . .” I hit the phone with the pen. It made a satisfying clack.

“Damn,” I said. “That’s Tony on the other line. I have to take this.”

“How is that handsome Tony?” my mother asked.

Ever since she caught sight of him bare-assed a few months ago, I think my mother has had a bit of a crush on Tony. “Are you two stil . . . ?” I hit the phone again. Clack! “Sorry, I real y do have to get this, Mom. See you Tuesday.”

“OK,” my mother shouted. “Be there at noon! Bring Tony!”

I hung up and said a silent prayer for Yvonne, for whom I suddenly felt a great rush of sympathy.

Now that Tony was gone, I wasn’t sure what to do with my evening. There was laundry to be done, and bil s to be paid, but my mind kept returning to Randy, lying in his hospital bed, alone. I didn’t know if he had any family or real friends. The only person I could think of we were both close to was Mrs. Cherry, the slightly demented but charming drag queen who ran our escort service.

Mrs. Cherry! I had to tel her. She picked up the phone on the first ring.

“My favorite boy,” she greeted me. “To what do I owe the great—no, the
orgasmic
pleasure—of this cal ?”

I told her what happened to Randy.

“Oh my dear,” Mrs. Cherry said when I was done.

“The poor, poor lamb. I must cal his clients and cancel their appointments. Would you be interested in perhaps picking up some extra work? Oh, wait, that won’t do, wil it?”

Randy was the imposing muscle stud of legend; I was the cute boy-next-door type. We didn’t share the same clientele. “Probably not,” I agreed.

Mrs. Cherry asked me the name of Randy’s hospital and doctors.

“Don’t you worry,” she told me. “I’l make sure that Randy has everything he needs. Momma wil take care of the bil s.”

Mrs. Cherry always looked out for her boys, which is one of the reasons many of the city’s top hustlers worked with her.

I gave Mrs. Cherry al the information I had.

“You’re such a dear,” she said. “Now don’t forget, tomorrow afternoon, you have that client from West Eighty-second Street. That very nice, very rich one.” In Mrs. Cherry’s eyes, I knew the two qualities were synonymous.

I told her I’d be there.

“You’re perfection!” she exclaimed.

I ordered in Chinese food and channel surfed until I found
What’s Up, Doc?
I watched the movie, ate my steamed chicken, and tried not to worry about Randy.

8

Send in the Clowns

The next morning, the phone awakened me at 6:30, which pissed me off until I saw who was cal ing. I hit

“talk.”

“Hey,” I said sleepily. “What’s up?”

“You stil in bed?” Tony asked leeringly. “Nice picture in my head right now.”

I sat up. “You’re pretty chipper for a guy who just woke up.”

“Never went to bed,” Tony answered. “At the station al night. Driving home now to crash for a few hours.”

He sounded tired.

“You should have stopped off here,” I told him.

“Then I wouldn’t be getting
any
sleep, would I?” I had to admit that was true.

“Anyway, I just cal ed to say I was sorry I had to run out on you last night. What did you wind up doing?” I think he was trying to see if I went out. Tony was enjoying his freedom, but not mine. I told him I spent the night watching TV and went to bed early. A slight edge in his voice made me think he didn’t believe me, but it might just have been his exhaustion.

We talked a little more until Tony told me he’d arrived home. “I could sleep for a week,” he said.

“Old man,” I teased him.

“I’l show you who’s old—I’l cal you soon, OK?”
Define soon,
I thought.

“Yeah,” I said. “Talk later.”

“Over and out, Kevvy.”

I went to the gym, had a protein drink and a shower there, and then headed to my volunteer job at The Stuff of Life. It was another warm-for-November day, and I wore baggy black Abercrombie & Fitch corduroy pants, a gray hoodie from Target, and my black leather jacket.

One of the best things about being a hustler is only having to work five or six hours a week. That left me plenty of time for my studies. Or it would if I were actual y stil in col ege. I dropped out early, but I’m going back.

When my friend Al en Harrington died, it turned out he left me a considerable inheritance. Unfortunately, due to the unusual circumstances of his demise, his wil was held up in probate. When that money comes through, though, I’m returning to school.

Until then, I fil a lot of my free time volunteering at The Stuff of Life, where I supervise the lunch shift, making home delivery meals for people with AIDS.

On the walk over, I cal ed Freddy and told him about my mom being on
Yvonne.

“You’re shitting me,” Freddy said. “That girl does
not
know what she’s getting into with your mother.” Every day, another church or community group came to help with meal preparation at The Stuff of Life. On Mondays, we were graced by the company of volunteers from the New York City Jewish Home for the Aged, or, as I like to cal them, the Super Yentas. Depending on the particular week, and on what percentage of the group were having issues what percentage of the group were having issues with their blood sugar, the Super Yentas were fifteen to twenty women in their seventies or eighties who shared the desire to do good works, moderate to severe hearing loss, osteoporosis, and very poor short-term memories.

“So,” Mrs. Epstein asked, as she, along with the rest of her crew, stood at the long metal table where they passed to each other the brown paper bags that they loaded, assembly-line fashion, with today’s lunch menu. “Have you found the right girl yet?”

“Not yet,” I answered distractedly.

“I don’t understand.” Mrs. Fishmeyer turned to Mrs.

Dreckeri. “Such a good-looking boy. What could be the problem?”

“It’s these modern girls.” Mrs. Dreckeri nodded wisely. She picked up a banana and put it in a bag.

“They’re al so busy with the working and the careers and the Pilates. Whatever that is. In my day, we didn’t have al this nonsense. We knew what was what.”

“What?” Mrs. Fishmeyer asked. She tapped her hearing aid. “I didn’t get that.”