Manning takes a gulp of the vodka. “Come on in, gang.” With a shrug, he tells them, “There’s plenty more where that came from,” knowing, as the words leave his lips, how insipid they sound. He’s certain he’s blown it—doomed the whole evening by his lack of social finesse.
But his young guests aren’t fazed. Indeed, they laugh at his comment as if hearing it newly coined. They gape and coo at the artful transformation of the loft, wishing him happiness amid interjections of “Congrats” and “Way cool.” Their enthusiasm, he can tell, is genuine, and he wants to share it with Neil, whose creativity has shaped these surroundings. As if summoned by Manning’s thoughts, Neil appears.
Manning asks him, “You know everyone, don’t you? We were just singing your praises.”
The arrivals number about a dozen, college-age or so, both men and women. Neil has met most of them at previous gatherings or in the city room of the
Journal,
where he sometimes meets Manning for a lunch date.
While newsroom attire is generally conservative, the trend toward the casual has been evinced even there, especially by these journalists in training. A copyboy can wear jeans to the office without thinking twice, but he knows instinctively that tank tops are beyond the limit. Tonight is different, though—it’s a party. And while it’s hosted by the paper’s star reporter, there’s a general consensus that he and Neil are “totally rad,” so these guests have dressed as they please.
It’s been a hot week in the city, and the younger crowd has responded by baring some flesh. Some of the girls wear tube tops with skirts that remind Manning of his youth in the liberated sixties. Some of the guys wear shorts and sandals. One of them wears a vest—like Manning’s—but without a T-shirt underneath, displaying shifting glimpses of his tanned torso. He also shows a tattoo, and he’s not the only one.
This is a trend that Manning has noticed, bewildered. No longer the blue-collar insignia that were once limited to anchors, eagles, or hearts with ribbons bearing
Mother
or the name of an erstwhile gal, these new tattoos are much smaller, worn by well-educated youngsters of both sexes in unexpected places—on the ankle, for instance, or the shoulder blade, or God-knows-where. They are tributes neither to patriotism nor to love, but to beer brands, cartoon characters, and pop-music fads.
It’s another sign of growing older, Manning tells himself, when you can’t figure out why kids do what they do. Try to keep an open mind.
Neil says, “Hey, guys, the bar’s in the kitchen. Have fun.” And they will. They pass around Neil, offering pats on the back, making a beeline for the booze. Neil tells Manning, “That’s what I like about youth. Aside from their obvious visual charms, they’re so easily amused.”
Again the buzzer. “Your turn,” says Manning, sweeping his hand from Neil toward the door.
Neil opens it, and in steps David Bosch with his two out-of-town guests. David wears an outfit similar to the uniforms of the catering staff, but with preppy loafers instead of boots. His shorts and knit shirt confirm that a fantasy body has lurked all along beneath his office attire. Neil gives Manning a private Groucho-twitch of his eyebrows, a silent allusion to David’s “obvious visual charms.”
Pink clouds. Manning realizes that his earlier tally of clouds on the horizon failed to include David, whose newly revealed doting is a sticky, unexpected development.
“Hi, David,” says Neil, shaking his hand. “Welcome to our humble home.”
“Awesome,” says David, who then cringes at the word. Then he turns to his older companions for a round of introductions. The woman is fifty-something, fashionable and handsome, not quite pretty; she wears tailored slacks and a vibrant red silk blouse. The man is in his sixties, balding, slim, and dapper; he wears a dark silk suit, lightened for the occasion by a jaunty yellow necktie with matching pocket handkerchief.
David says, “Claire and Hector, I’d like you to meet Mark Manning of the
Journal.
” David beams with pride, then adds sheepishly, “I don’t have to tell you—Mark’s the best in the business.”
Manning rolls his eyes, saying, “David, please. …”
David continues. “And this is Mark’s friend, Neil Waite, an architect who’s involved with the planning of Celebration Two Thousand.” Then turning to Neil and Manning, David says, “Gentlemen, please meet Claire Gray and my uncle, Hector Bosch.”
They all shake hands, honored to know one another. Manning concludes by telling David’s guests, “Welcome to Chicago. We’re delighted to have you in town.”
Claire tells him, “The theater committee was kind enough to invite us for the opening ceremonies during Fourth of July weekend. We were thrilled to be asked.”
Hector says, “And since I’ve spent no time whatever with my favorite nephew (my one and only, actually) since his earlier salad days in college, this trip provides me a perfect opportunity to scrutinize his new life among the Second City’s fourth estate. So I’m prepared to be impressed, Mr. Manning. Naturally, I’ll be filing reviews of the theater festival.”
“I should have guessed,” says Manning, recognizing the mannered prose that is a hallmark of Hector’s columns. He adds, “And please—call me Mark.”
Hector and Claire invite Manning and Neil to use their own first names as well.
Manning offers, “Let me get you a drink.” Hector and Claire both decide on kir. Manning asks for help from David, who gladly tails him to the bar, leaving Neil to get acquainted with the New Yorkers.
He says, “It’s a shame, Claire, that your schedule won’t allow you to direct part of the theater festival.”
“I feel terrible about it, darling, but my commitments back East were chiseled in stone, they tell me, so I’ll be watching the efforts of others for a change—which is really quite a nice idea, when you think about it.” She flips her palms in the air. “I’m on vacation!”
“Yes, my dearest,” says Hector. “So I’ve noticed—especially while I’ve been chained to that damned modem in our hotel room.”
“Poor baby. Man may work from sun to sun, but Hector’s work is never done.”
Dryly, Hector tells her, “Your sympathy is appreciated more than you know.” Then he asks Neil, “What can we expect at the opening ceremonies next weekend at the stadium?”
Neil ushers them away from the door toward a furniture grouping that anchors the central space of the loft. With a gesture, he invites them to sit. He tells Hector, “The plans are changing daily, but it ought to be spectacular. The nation’s top talent, from pop to opera, will be there doing snippets for a capacity crowd and a worldwide TV audience. But the festival isn’t only about the performing arts. We’ll also put the visual arts, the practical arts, and the sciences center stage. And then there’s the whole political aspect—the human-rights rally and the president’s address, assuming he decides to accept the committee’s invitation.”
“Bravo,” Claire tells him. “That’s exactly the sort of coordinated effort that stands a chance to make a meaningful difference to society. When the brightest minds come together, not only to entertain but to inspire, then we can all begin to move ahead. For the first time in memory, I’m actually looking forward to a presidential election, to say nothing of the broad public debate that will precede it.”
“You needn’t wait till the election,” Neil tells her. “The ‘broad public debate’ has already begun. The Christian Family Crusade has announced plans to stage a rally of its own, countering the event at the stadium. They’re mounting a protest march as part of the grand opening of that luxury hotel they’ve built on the North Side—the Gethsemane Arms—have you ever heard anything so ludicrous?”
Hector admonishes Neil. “I wouldn’t be so quick to judge. The CFC has flourished under the prudent financial management of its current leadership. Even more important, they stand for principles held dear by a great many Americans.”
“Like what?” asks Claire. “Intolerance and bigotry? They’ve been in the limelight too long already, and with any luck, they’ll find their influence has waned. It should be a wide-open race next year, and maybe this country will at last engage itself in a rational exchange of ideas.”
“I hope so,” says Neil, sitting back, crossing his arms. “That’s why we’ve invited presidential hopefuls from both parties, as well as that upstart Libertarian, to take part in the ceremonies. If we can begin to establish common ground on only one issue—human rights, which of course includes gay rights, a topic that’s near and dear to me—our efforts will be proven worthwhile.”
Attempting to shift the topic, Hector says, “I understand where the arts and politics fit into all this, but how do you plan to include the sciences?”
Neil’s eyes gleam. He leans forward to say, “That’s the best part. It hasn’t been publicized, but arrangements have been made for a state-of-the-art sky show. A laser spectacle will appear over the whole Loop and Near North Side, with the new stadium at its center. As the president concludes his speech—in effect, a changing of the guard, an ushering-in of the new age—the sky above the city will burst alive with the light of a laser show, a giant floating pink triangle.”
“Good Lord,” says Claire. “How does it work?”
“It will be projected from masts atop three tall buildings—Sears Tower, MidAmerica Oil, and the Journal Building—forming the points of the triangle. It’ll blow people’s minds. And the show will be repeated each night of the celebration, into the year two thousand.”
“Sounds like a marvelous spectacle,” says Hector. “But why pink?”
Claire eyes him as though he should know better. “Really, Hector. The pink triangle symbolizes gay liberation.”
“Ah, yes,” he says, “an allusion to the paper badges of Nazi death camps. Odd choice for the graphic identity of a progressive social movement—rather grim, isn’t it?”
“It
was,
certainly,” says Neil. “Symbols can be powerful weapons, and the pink triangle originated as a symbol of hate. But by claiming it as our own, we have not only defanged it—we’ve been empowered by it. Such a metamorphosis may sound like voodoo, I know, but it truly happens. In the same way, much of the gay community has embraced the term
queer.
”
Hector winces.
Noting his discomfort with the direction their conversation has taken, Neil asks, “Is something wrong, Hector?”
“Not in the least.” His tone is curt and unconvincing.
Claire offers, “Hector has been a tad uneasy with gay issues of late.”
“Sorry,” says Neil, the accommodating host. “I presumed … Well, you’re from New York, involved with theater.”
“I have many gay friends,” Hector assures him. “A person’s sexual preference—or orientation, or identity, or whatever the correct buzz-of-the-day happens to be—is of no concern to me at all.”
“Unless,” interjects Claire, “that person happens to be your nephew.”
“
Claire
,” Hector admonishes her, as though she has betrayed a confidence.
“Hey, no problem,” Neil says offhandedly, trying to ease the tension. “I already know about David. I’ve … had vibes.” Although it would be more precise to say he’s “heard rumors,” he assumes that Hector would not appreciate such wording.
Claire leans to tell Neil, “Hector has always felt protective of David. This unexpected turn in his life has left Hector feeling unable to guide the boy.”
Resigned to the fact that he will not be able to sidetrack this discussion, Hector decides that Neil should hear details from the source. “I hope not to sound mawkish,” he says, “but I’ve always thought of David as more of a son than a nephew. Though I’ve been married—briefly, more than once—I have no children of my own. And now, of course, it’s too late to begin a family, even if Claire would consent to be my bride. I’ve asked her on occasion, by the way, yet she seems obstinately determined to enter her latter years still single—with no pretense, I might add, of maidenhood.” He casts her a visual jab. She responds with an exasperated look that says they’ve covered this ground before.
He continues, “So David, my brother’s son, has been lent to me from time to time over the years, a little boy I could help rear in life’s finer ways. His parents are good people, hardworking midwesterners who’ve given him the security and love any child deserves. And they’ve had the common sense to recognize that David’s upbringing could be enriched by a sophisticated uncle in Manhattan—none other than yours truly. I’ve introduced him not only to theater, but to music. I’ve shown him the world, at least the parts that count: Paris one Easter, Rome for Christmas, theater trips to London whenever possible. During his high-school years, he spent entire summers with me, enjoying life from a penthouse overlooking Central Park, taking advantage of the best the city has to offer.”
Hector pauses, touches up the knot of his necktie, and settles farther into the sofa, one arm draped elegantly along its back. Unmistakable pride colors his voice as he continues, “It was also during those summers that David got a firsthand look at my day-to-day life as a writer, which nurtured his own budding interest in journalism. I was as thrilled as his parents when he was accepted at Northwestern, and I’m overjoyed that he’s now launching his career at the
Journal.
Who knows? Maybe one day he’ll be ready for the
Times.
” Hector again pauses, savoring the prospect of his nephew’s advancement, without needing to clarify that the
Times
on his mind is the one in New York.
Returning to his story, he says, “I had become his Auntie Mame. We’d joke about it—Claire too—‘Life is a banquet’ and all that. But after David entered college, his summers got busy, so his visits became shorter and less frequent. He was growing up, developing into his own person, acquiring new interests—such as bodybuilding, which I’ve never understood.” Hector shudders at the thought of David’s incessant weight training.
He tenses, leans forward. “Then, during the semester break of his senior year, he came to spend a couple of weeks with me. I found it unusual because he seemed especially eager to visit New York, which is anything but pleasant in January. His first night there, while we were at dinner, he told me he had big news—the
Chicago Journal
was taking him on as an intern. He mentioned that he’d visited the newsroom earlier that week and had met Mark Manning, whom he had long held in high esteem. He judged the experience to be an omen of great things to come, explaining that the
Journal’s
cub reporters are typically hired from the pool of interns who are finishing college. So we celebrated his good fortune that night amid toasts to the future.”