The Passionate Attention of an Interesting Man (14 page)

JASON:

Sex for money?
Because within minutes you two were nowhere to be found.

RICK:

…and left Lyle and Arthur talking it over. And, I am told, the bar manager let Arthur quit early, so Lyle offered him a ride home. And off the two of them went.

But that, truly, is when The Night began. Because Lyle had no intention of dropping Arthur off. When he drove past Franklin Street, Arthur said, “You missed the turn.”

Lyle did not respond to that. One block later, he had to stop for a red light, and Arthur saw that Lyle’s eyes were raging like a sci-fi super-villain’s, as brilliant as a surprise in the plot. Arthur tried to slip out of his seat belt to lam out of the truck, but Lyle reached over and grabbed him, saying, “You sit tight or I’ll slam my fist into your face so hard you won’t come back for a month.”

And that’s how they rode the rest of the way to Lyle’s: the big guy smoking like Vesuvius and Arthur apprehensive but considering his options.

JASON:

As they danced to “The Lyle
Hickock Fandango!”

Well
! There are so many different, dare I say
editions
of the tale that
we
refer to it as the Gospel. Because Phil Conroy
insisted
that when Lyle and Jutter pulled into the driveway of Lyle’s spread—because Lyle’s house sits right next to Hickock Motors, I suppose the better to imprison you, my dear—the host said he was going to take Jutter inside, fix his wagon good in the traditional Lyle manner, and then kick him out. Yes, in the middle of the night! We have a policy, sir! And to make sure that Jutter didn’t try to zip off again, Lyle pulled him out of the car on the driver side and threatened to wreck him on the spot if he called for help. Phil said a neighbor saw the whole thing from her kitchen window.

But Alistair
Tessier claimed that Jutter broke away after all, and Lyle had to chase him and tackle him and drag him inside kicking, with Lyle’s hand over Jutter’s mouth. According to Alistair, his cable guy or something just happened to be passing and witnessed the event. While drinking an Angel’s Tip, no doubt.

But Bert Reed said that once Lyle got
Jutter inside and into Lyle’s room, he stripped them both while Jutter begged and pleaded.
Ha
! The sound of music to a sadist’s ears! And then! Taking out an English boarding-school birch rod, Lyle laid it ceremonially on the bed, turned to Jutter, and said, “C’m’ere.”

Okay, so far so good—but how do we
know
? We were at Phil’s, this was, arguing over whose book of Gospel was
the
book, or at least the most likely, or at any rate the most fun, when everyone sort of turned to my good old comrade Rick. And
he
said

RICK:

They settled it in the car, actually. There’s a small parking lot between the house and the business, and, after Lyle pulled in there and turned the car off, he started a new conversation. He was still angry, but at least now he left out the threatening overtones.

First, Lyle asked Arthur why he broke it off without confronting him. And Arthur replied, sensibly, that Lyle was too rough with him, and extremely volatile when things don’t go his way. So a confrontation wouldn’t have been a good idea. Worse, Arthur feared that, in Lyle’s presence, all his resistance would have evaporated. Because he knew deep in his tender little human heart that he would never be happy unless he could sleep peacefully next to Lyle. And Arthur told Lyle that, straight out, and Lyle replied that, in that case, Arthur might just as well give up this foolishness and move in with Lyle.

“I don’t like that stupid little house you’re in, anyway,” said Lyle. “It’s cold and wet and it’s in the wrong part of town. It’s hours wasted every week, going back and forth. Tomorrow we’ll take the pickup over and pile your stuff in and bring you back here. You’ll quit that bar job and make yourself useful around the shop, learn a trade like a man.”

Resistance is futile, as they put it on television. You will be assimilated.

Never softening even in victory, Lyle went on, “I can teach you a few things about auto tech, turn a glamour boy into a real guy about town. You’ll be grateful eventually. And Jeff and
Desi will adopt you as one of their own.”

“
Desi?” Arthur asked.

“Don’t get cute about my business associates,” said Lyle. Altogether, this scene in his car found him saying more than he usually does in a whole week.

Well, so I shared this with Jason and his chums. I told them that Lyle habitually chose his partners by a code known only to himself, but that this time Lyle himself was chosen. Love chose him. Arthur chose him, not because Lyle was raw and wild but because, when Arthur got close to him, he felt so secure that he could lie in those arms and rest.

And, once again, the queens were silent. They liked their Gospel, but they liked mine better. Finally Jason got it:

JASON:

“You didn’t come here to look me up,” I told Rick, driving him home that night. “You came to find Lyle. You’re one of his exes, and that explains all this…subterfuge. Am I right?”

“Yes, actually.”

“So all your information,” I further concluded, “comes straight from Lyle?”

“Some from Arthur.”

“So.”

We drove a bit without speaking, till I asked him, “Did he beat you up? Lyle?
Really
beat you?”

“Not really. He has his overwhelming side, I suppose. In the end, though, he’s less a bully than a stone idol
. On the other hand, he does play rough.”

“Why?”

“Men that sexy are crazy,” he replied. “Sex is crazy. Gays are crazy. It’s our gift.”

So now we know. Anyway,
Jutter and Lyle have been together ever since, about two years now. They don’t get out much, so even Rick doesn’t see them to any extent. Jutter has been learning about fixing cars and Lyle runs Hickock Motors more or less all day plus, so what those two do in their spare time is anybody’s guess. Maybe they play cop show, with Jeff and Desi as this week’s guest suspects, and it’s all very sneaky and realistic. Rick says that, as he understands it, they’re devoted to each other and live in a state of unquestioning mutual respect. Allegedly. But the main thing is that theatrical improvisations based on their saga have become even more popular at Phil Conroy’s At Homes than
The Bette Davis Show
.

Sometimes I get to play
Jutter. My favorite moment comes when Phil, playing Lyle, announces that I must now learn about carburetors and dipsticks and oiling mechanics in the hood, and I always reply, “How many of them do I oil?,” which breaks everybody up. So, you see, life is back to normal in our little gay town.

And one evening, when I was driving Rick home—yes, he
still
¬ doesn’t drive his own car—I asked him, out of the blue, if I he thought I would ever meet someone like Lyle and be able to slumber in his arms in perfect union—as Lyle and…all right,
Arthur
…are probably doing as we speak. Rick knew I wasn’t fishing for consolations. I wanted the truth, and only a friend-for-life can give you that.

And he answered, “No.”

I nodded. Yes, well. No Lyle for this boy. Rick kissed my cheek as he got out, and I drove on home. And when I opened the door, both cats came running up to say how much they’d missed me, which they had never done before.

THE  FLIPPETY  FLOP

The big black sailor was sitting alone, way down at the far end of the bar. It was after midnight on a Thursday. The place was quiet, as turned off as an Edward Hopper. Richard took the stool next to the sailor as casually as possible, ordered a Johnny Walker Red on the rocks, and waited.

“Man,” said the sailor at last, in a softly rolling undertone. “This sure is a mean city of a place.”

Richard nodded, his head but half turned to the man, his eyes lowered. He didn’t like staring directly into a stranger’s eyes, or other such…assertive behavior.

“Set up this shore leave to stay with an
ol’ girl friend, suddenly she get all teasy an’ agitated, throw my ass right out of there. Now I’m stuck for bunkin’ room.”

Trying his can of Bud, the sailor found it empty and banged it on the edge of the bar with a murmured, “Fuck that shit.” Clasping his hands before him, turning them palms out to stretch the joins of his upper body in his summer whites, he added, “Seem like
everythin’ goin’ wrong this night.”

“Can I buy you another?” Richard asked, turning to face the man but still avoiding a direct gaze. The sailor looked right at him as if trying to draw his eyes, center the meeting. Richard dared a quick look then, scarcely even a glance, really, but enough to see the sailor’s unsettling half-smile. Idly looking back down at his drink, Richard heard him say, “Now, that would make a nice start.”

Richard signaled the bartender.

“Well, yeah,” the sailor went on,
swivelling on his stool to allow Richard, in a series of darting inspections, to take him in. Bending his arms and thrusting them back to emphasize his massive chest development, broadening his smile. When the beer arrived, he tipped the can at Richard by way of thanks, took a swig, wiped his mouth with his free hand, and asked, “What do you want to know?”

“I can see that you’re one of those bodybuilders,” said Richard, now forcing himself to focus on the sailor’s face. “I shouldn’t think life on a ship would give you a lot of gym time. Or…even…do they
have
gyms on boats?”

“They got
everythin’ on boats, son,” said the sailor, parking his beer can as if embarking on a serious lecture. “Tell you truth, they ain’ much to do at sea when you’re off duty, ‘cep watch TV or play cards. Or lift. Hell, I be in that gym every day. Two, three hours’ worth.”

“Yes, you…really look it.”

“Feel this,” the sailor half-whispered, tightening his left biceps about an inch in front of Richard’s face. “See how big like you could taste it. Go ahead.”

Hastily looking around to see if anyone was spying on them, Richard obliged. He took a good long squeeze of the sailor’s arm, saying, “That’s quite something.”

“Lot more on me where that come from, too,” the sailor added, conspiratorially. “I’m gen’rally big. Guarantee.”

The two of them went on for a while on a number of topics, Richard playing it neutral and the sailor constantly edging in with an angle. His girl friend throwing him out. The cost of a room. Finally, he said, “You seem like a nice guy, you know? Feel I can
trus’ you. Seein’ as I got no place tonight, how’s about I bunk in with you?”

“That would be fine,” said Richard. “In fact, I live rather nearby. Just—”

“Le’s shove off.”

They left the bar and started walking, the sailor setting the pace at a confident amble. Neither said anything till they were inside Richard’s apartment.

“Nice joint,” said the sailor, though he wasn’t looking around. He was looking at Richard. “What you got for us to drink?”

“I’m out of beer, I’m afraid. There’s…well, let’s see…”

“I’ll have what you’re havin’.”

“Is scotch okay?”

“Take mine neat,” said the sailor, parking himself on the couch.

When Richard brought the glasses out of the kitchen, the sailor said, “Yeah, this
ol’ girl friend, like I say—thank you, my man—she get real problematical. Time and again, you know?”

“Yes,” Richard replied, joining the man on the couch.

“She, like, whackin’ on my program. Can’t get a step right, they in that mood. You know?”

“Yes.”

“Shucks, I
know
she fussin’ ‘cause I want to do the flippety flop and she don’t care to take it up the ass. Sure. Lick her candy, suck up her boobs, pussy-fuck her. Then she all ‘Oh, honey boy, tha’s so fly. Tha’s so true.’ Yeah, she do surely
love
that usual shit. But when I ask her to flop for me please, she give me shade straight up. She like ‘You outta here
pronto
!’”

“I…the
flippety flop?”

The sailor smiled broadly and put his arm around Richard’s shoulders, buddy-style. “Well, sure,
tha’s what this man’s navy call sex. Rear motion. She on her back, legs high, as you move to the rhythm of love.” Murmuring into Richard’s ear, the sailor said, “Le’s whisper now. Like the ol’ song go:

You be the bottom,

I be the top,

When we do the flippety flop.

Taking a sip of his drink, the sailor added, “Know what I mean?”