Winning is Everything (7 page)

“Thank you, no,” said Ellenor. “Not tonight. I’m from Seattle, remember? We’re used to old-fashioned one-step-at-a-time dating.”

Who, Ron wondered,
was
this nervy rube from the provinces? He, the greatest Romeo ever to plow his way through the entire sorority system at the U. of Mich., was being turned away by this most overweight of creatures.

“Hey …” He reached forward, took her hand. “Don’t you know there’s a sexual revolution going on out there?”

“Maybe,” said Ellenor. “But I still haven’t decided which side I want to see win.”

Shaking his hand good night, Ellenor eased Ron back into the hallway, leaving him standing there rejected, stunned, and disbelieving.

9 

The evening at the Arthur discotheque might as well have been Ron’s coming-out party. For, once introduced to New York society, his social life could never again be the same. Ron the social director of pig parties and costumed bashes turned, overnight, into Ron the man-about-town.

So long Lacoste and Sears, Roebuck; hello Italian silk shirts and Saks Fifth Avenue. This was it. Ron was on his way. Today Arthur. Tomorrow the world. The popular night spot represented all Ron hoped to become. His demands on life were simple. All he asked was to become sophisticated, wealthy, and well-known. One day soon he would have the $125 bottle of wine in a restaurant, the house on Nantucket, the apartment in Paris, the jet-setting good life.

It was only a matter of time.

Ron returned to the popular discotheque the following night. He brought with him one of the less-mousy of the pavilion’s Southern belles, a dopey blond from Dallas named Daisy who at least had the saving grace of a terrific body, which Ron guessed would look great when she stepped out on the dance floor.

Ron and Daisy arrived at Arthur shortly before eleven-thirty and stared down the long line of people waiting to enter. Ron held Daisy by the hand and took a deep breath as he crossed this sea of shattered egos until they’d arrived at the front door. Thank God the bouncer from the night before was working again.

“Where we goin’?” Daisy whined, a stubborn Texas heifer being pulled by a rope.

“Follow me, Dallas,” said Ron. “You don’t expect us to wait in line, do you?”

“Ah wouldn’t know,”said Daisy.

“Hi!” said Ron with a wide smile.

“Nuttin’ for a coupla hours, Mac,” the bouncer said as he looked right through him.

“You don’t remember
me
?” Ron pointed to the middle of his chest for emphasis.

The bouncer had heard it all before. “You wanna get in line?” He pointed down the block, somewhere toward Queens.

“I… uh, we … uhm, spoke; I was here; Jean Shrimpton and me. I handed you a … I thought you’d remember …”

“Right this way, Miss Van Doren,” said the bouncer to the tall, glamorous blond and her three fey escorts.

“It’s Ron, Ron Zinelli,” said Ron to the concrete pavement as the bouncer replaced the thick velvet rope onto its notch. “One N, two L’s.”

Hopes dashed, Ron grabbed Daisy’s hand and started down to the end of the line.

“Hey! You!” a voice called out.

Ron turned and saw the bouncer signaling to him.

“Come’ere!”

Ron almost broke Daisy’s wrist in his return flight to the front door.

“Now I remember,” said the bouncer. “Yeah, you was here last night, right?”

“Right!”

“Why didn’t ja say so?”

Ron smiled smugly and shrugged.

“Wait right here.” The bouncer unlatched the velvet rope and pointed to a spot near the front door. “I’ll have somethin’ for yous in about … tree minutes.”

Tree minutes sounded fine to Ron. He also realized the moment called for an additional investment. He pulled his wallet out and removed a five-dollar bill. Then he thought twice. Cheap is cheap and the back of the line is the back of the line, so Ron replaced the five-spot with a tenner and through the process of a vigorous handshake with the bouncer, he transferred the money.

This time the bouncer didn’t stash it right away, but took the time to look at the green. It obviously struck a responsive chord, as he smiled at Ron and signaled for them. “Tanks a lot,” he said.

Tanks were not in order, thought Ron. If anything, it was he who should be tanking the bouncer.

As Ron led Daisy past the front door, he remembered to turn and ask, “By the way … what
is
your name?”

“Al,” said the bouncer.

Satisfied that he’d made it to the inner sanctum, and feeling more like one of the Beautiful People than ever, Ron took Daisy by the hand and led her down the hallway toward the sound of the lively music, wondering how she was reacting to all his magic.

They were seated in front of the men’s room. But if it wasn’t the best table in the house, it was at least
in
the house. And sitting back there in Nose Bleed Alley at least gave them the chance to see the whole room.

He and Daisy ordered drinks. They danced. They laughed. They looked. They had a wonderful time. They spent all of his money.

The next day Ron borrowed thirty dollars from Gary, promising to pay him back at the earliest possible date.

Two days later, after another two nights at Arthur, Ron borrowed another twenty from his obliging roommate, and then three days later begged to borrow another fifteen.

“Don’t worry. You know I’m good for it,” Ron told Gary as he pocketed the money. “I’m just too broke to wait for payday to go out again. I’m having such a great time. Last night they sat us three tables away from Henry Fonda and within spitting distance of Elizabeth Ashley. It’s really starting to happen; they’re really getting to know me there.”

True. They
were
getting to know him at Arthur. And soon at rival discotheques, Le Club and Ondine. Ron was making the Manhattan night-life scene. He was staying out late, meeting people, getting drunk, having the time of his life.

And was soon in debt to Gary for close to three hundred dollars.

10

Gary was in the Product Salon, working on the Aurora, answering questions about the car of the future and—naturally—giving directions to the bathrooms. His zone leader, Hamilton Forsyth, a wisp of a young man, came over to tell him he could take his midmorning break.

Gary stepped down off the platform and headed for the employees’ lounge. Hamilton (or Ham, as he was known around the pav) walked with him to the edge of the salon.

“Having a party Thursday night,” he told Gary in a curious half-whisper. “Like you to come.”

“A party?”

“Keep it quiet, though. Going to be
all
boys. Don’t want word getting around.”

“Boys?”

“Yeah,” said Ham, “just the gays. I think it’s about time we had ourselves a bit of fun too.
We
should be able to show your buddy Ron Zinelli a thing or two about having a good time, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Gary. “I’m not a homosexual.”

Ham looked at Gary sideways. “You’re not?”

“No. I’m not.” Gary tried to be pleasant about it. “Honest …”

“Right!” said Ham, walking away. “And I’m the Queen of Romania! Nine o’clock. Four-oh-five East Fifty-fourth Street. We won’t tell
anyone. “

Gary headed downstairs, straight for a cup of coffee and two aspirin. He sat at a table by himself, sipping the coffee and trying to decide whether to be infuriated, embarrassed, or amused.

He decided he was all three.

What had he done to encourage Ham to invite
him
to an all-male gathering? Something he said? The way he looked, spoke, walked, what? What the hell could Ham have been thinking?

Must be a mistake. Maybe he’d been invited so he could report back to Ron. Obviously Hamilton Forsyth was vying to replace Ron as the pavilion’s social director. Maybe someone gave Ham a piece of misinformation. Maybe Ham was just practicing wishful thinking. Gary was no hairdresser. He had no limp wrist, did not add six S’sssss to the word “serious.” Hell, he wasn’t even especially crazy about Judy Garland.

How dare anyone take me for a homosexual!

All right, calm down. Nothing to get excited about. Maybe he was just testing you, checking out your response, seeing how you would react. Ham knew nothing. There was nothing to know. Gary had never been with a man. He’d never been with a woman, either. But that was different. At least he had tried. At least he had wanted to.

After all, there had been Susan Tillman and that night a year or so ago after the formal. Everyone had gone back to the fraternity house to change from rented tuxedos and tulle dresses into Bermuda shorts and T-shirts before drifting down to the lake.

They were all quite drunk, rowdy with enthusiasm until they settled down, two by two, into selected dark corners surrounding the pier. Gary and Susan had taken a blanket and a six-pack to a heavily wooded area where they started playing the same game they’d gone through ever since they’d first started dating. He wanted her, she refused, he insisted, she refused, he said he was crazy for her, she asked to see the lavalier, the fraternity pin, the engagement ring, the band of gold; some proof of the sincerity of his passion.

He tried to level with her, explaining he wasn’t ready to get tied down, even if all the other brothers and sisters around them were setting dates for marching down aisles. He wanted to become a writer. As far as he knew, he had just this one life, and wasn’t planning to conduct it with any mortgage, two-car garage, front lawn, or one and a half dogs. He leaned over and moved his hands down to Susan’s small but lovely breasts, first from the outside, then, with a casual unbuttoning, began touching her supple flesh. He squeezed her nipple gently, waiting for her to tell him to stop.

Susan was silent.

So he stole from second base to third, his fingers dancing down her belly until they were inside her panties.

“No, Gary … No, don’t … Please, no. Don’t,” Susan moaned, twisting from side to side.

“Please yes!” he whispered into her ear as he proceeded to unsnap the button on her shorts and pull the red Bermudas down to her ankles.

For the first time Susan lay back, letting him know, despite her verbal protestations to the contrary, that she was finally ready to part with her cherished virginity.

It took him three minutes to get Susan out of her clothes and another two to remove his. And as each article was removed, Susan kept whispering “Please no” but made no move to actually stop him. Carefully Gary lifted his body atop hers, insinuating his erection against her vagina. He pushed gently, and waited excitedly for his cock to slide inside, but the harder he tried, the more she clamped down. Soon her quiet moans of “No, don’t” became insistent pleas of “Oh yes, do.”

Gary became panicked, pushing against her, wondering what he might be doing wrong. In time, spent and enervated, no longer erect, he rolled off Susan and looked up at the sky.

Susan, not exactly/the picture of experience herself, turned to him, and placing a soft hand across his chest, said quietly, “Thank you for holding back. Thank you for thinking of me.”

Gary shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes. If he and Susan hadn’t broken up the following weekend, he might’ve gotten a second shot. Surely, in the less-tense, relaxed atmosphere of a second attempt, he would have succeeded. Or would he once again have beeh tagged out sliding into home plate? Twenty-one years old and still a virgin.

Okay, Gary thought as he finished his second cup of coffee, that was over a year ago and you’ve been driving yourself crazy about it ever since. It wasn’t my fault. Lots of guys don’t get it in the first time.

Yeah? Gary asked himself. Like who? He stood up, tossed the Styrofoam cup into a wastebasket, and headed upstairs, back to the Product Salon.

Maybe he would have a chat with Ham, find out just what it was that had prompted the zone leader to invite him to an all-male gathering. No, Gary dismissed the notion. Bringing it up might embarrass Ham. Worse yet, it might embarrass Gary. Leave it alone and just don’t go to the party. Gary let the possibility linger in the back of his mind.

Thursday evening, Gary walked around the block at Fifty-fourth Street four times, trying to convince himself he was just out for a stroll, simply observing where he wasn’t going to be.

Like a moth to a flame, though, he eventually walked into the lobby of the apartment house. He would just go up there and
observe.
For the experience. But for a long time he stood outside the party listening, trying to make sense out of the jovial sounds coming from inside.

If being queer meant being tortured, how come everyone on the other side of the door sounded so happy? Gary was confused. He didn’t belong there.

What if Susan Tillman were inside? What if Ron saw him? What if Kip found out?

But Susan was married and in Michigan. And Ron wouldn’t believe it. And Kip … well, for all Gary knew, Kip could be standing on the other side of the door, just another guest at the party.