Some Men Are Lookers: A Continuation of the "Buddies" Cycle (24 page)

“Da, da . . . anything bad happen to my family. That is great fear.”

“Then you must renounce candy forever.”

He looked confused, as well he might—but then, who am I to tell people what to do with their lives?

I was trying to restate my position in simpler English when Cosgrove stormed in, his features set. He went into the kitchen and came out brandishing the bread knife.

“Bozhe!” said Konstantin. “Yesli Rasputina zakolili etam nozhom, on pravdiva umyer.” If they’d used
that
knife on Rasputin, he’d
really
be dead.

“What’s with the cutlery?” I asked Cosgrove, by way of calling him back.

“A certain Dennis Savage has called me ‘Auschwitzhead’ for the last time. I’ll show him who’s queen of the meat rack!”

Where does he
get
that stuff? Oh, of course, from Miss Faye. “Let’s put down the knife,” I said, “because—”

“This your friend?” Konstantin asked me. “Your love friend?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but—”

“Is this Peter’s secret guy who’s really married?” Cosgrove asked me. “We should give him the sex survey and see what he’ll do.”

“Who is?” Konstantin asked me.

“This is Cosgrove, but you already met,” I said, relieving my love friend of the knife.

“Yes, and what his position?”

“Second, with a demi-plié and a
Nutcracker
turnout,” I replied, redepositing the knife in the flatware drawer.

“He gets nervous when people ask about our relationship,” said Cosgrove, coming near to Konstantin, who held him by the waist.

“You seem fine young fellow,” said Konstantin, taking Cosgrove in. “When you love, what you two are doing?”

“Tower Records,” I quickly called out to Cosgrove, “first thing tomorrow, fifty-dollar limit, both ways by cab. All this just for your silence at this dramatically somewhat overladen moment.”

“One hundred,” Cosgrove demanded. “Not counting the tax.”

“Oh, come on!”

He leaned over to Konstantin to whisper in his ear—he actually had his hand cupped—when I said, “All right, one hundred.”

“Why you have secret?” Konstantin asked me.

“I never wanted anyone knowing anything about me,” I replied. “No matter what it was. Even neutral things. I just—”

“But this fellow,” Konstantin insisted, about Cosgrove, “what he
means
to you?”

“Boy, this
is
a sex survey,” said Cosgrove.

“Cosgrove,” I said, “why don’t you tell Konstantin about your work?”

Cosgrove turned to Konstantin, and as they gazed upon each other there passed between them an accepting look such as men, straight or gay, send out when neither feels challenged.

“I’m in the performing arts, mostly,” Cosgrove began. “Lately I’ve been specializing in commercials.” Cosgrove sat on the couch next to Konstantin. “I’m starting a postmodernesque repertory
company, a band of mystical talents where we do nothing but commercials about imaginary products. That’s very postmodernesque, you see. But we take the historical approach, and we refer to the great roles—Hamlet, King Lear, Dumbo. The company already includes such acclaimed talents as Miss Faye and Baby Frumkin, who is sometimes known as Jacky Pete. He spiels in the audience between the acts, because he has a way with the public. He’s quite the flatterbox, I dare say.”

Konstantin looked inquiringly at me. I shrugged.

“How old are you?” Cosgrove asked Konstantin.

“Twenty-three,” said Konstantin, smiling at Cosgrove as if at an adorably frisky four-year-old.

“I’m almost that myself. I can see you’re very handsome, but you were worried when you came in. Is everything all right?”

“Perhaps no,” Konstantin admitted.

“I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask how you got into this . . .”

“Apartment”? I wondered. “Predicament”? “Story”?

“. . . nice costume? As the head of my repertory company, I’m always looking for a new postmodernesque look. Baby Frumkin works in a spiderweb outfit that sets off his white, white skin. I appear in regular clothes. But that’s a costume in itself, if you think about it.”

Then Alfie came down, because, as he explained, he “thought it was time for make-your-own banana splits.”

I said no, that was for after dinner, and Cosgrove got the notion that he and Alfie should perform the commercial for Café de Môte, for Alfie had very nearly mastered the all-important role of the Duke of Kraken.

“Is what?” Konstantin asked; but the players were even then taking stage, and Cosgrove signaled to me to introduce his sketch.

Of course, I had looked on as the piece was conceived, developed, and perfected (if that’s not too confidently put); and I devised the spelling. So, as Cosgrove and Alfie moved chairs around, grabbed props, and struck poses, I announced, “We look in on a
lavish dinner party among New York’s ultrasophisticates. Prince Panizetti demands attention and declares . . .”

“The pâté was sinister,” says Cosgrove, as the Prince. “But the Rice-A-Roni was exquisite. We await the coffee.”

He and Alfie assumed imperious looks.

“The coffee is poured,” I said, watching Konstantin look from me to the players in perplexity. “But consternation ensues!”

“What coffee
is
this?” cried Cosgrove, making a face.

“Mine tastes like throw-up!” said Alfie.

“No, Alfie: ‘What a vile-tasting cup!’ ”

“This vile taste of cup!”

I smoothly put in, “Now the hostess springs her surprise,” as Cosgrove jumped up to take another role.

“It’s Café de Môte,” Cosgrove announced, as the Hostess of the Party. Then he jumped back into the Prince as he and Alfie chorused an “mmm” of delight.

“What heavenly taste,” said the Prince.

“Dibs on seconds, I call it,” said Alfie.

Jumping up, Cosgrove cried, “The party was
saved!
And all because of Café de Mête! Shouldn’t you get some . . .
today
?”

The three of us now looked at Konstantin, who was just sitting there.

“What this?” he finally asked.

“Didn’t you like it?” said Cosgrove.

“I was the Duke,” said Alfie, coming up to Konstantin. “Did you notice?”

Konstantin, staring at Alfie, asked, “Who this boy?”

I introduced them, and Konstantin said, “This so beautiful a child. So loving. Where his father?”

“France,” said Cosgrove.

“London,” said Alfie. “The Alps.”

“His folks are touring Europe,” I began, stopping when Konstantin took Alfie in his arms, petting him and weeping.

“What’s
his
problem?” Cosgrove asked me.

“He’s been invited to appear in a porn movie with any partner of his choice.”

Alfie clearly liked being held by Konstantin. He was sitting in the man’s lap now, his head on Konstantin’s shoulder, more or less dozing.

“Children is, that you love,” said Konstantin, stroking Alfie’s hair, “because they always love back to you. Okay. Now we apart,” he told Alfie. “Ras, dva, tri!”

Alfie jumped free with a “Yay!” and Cosgrove said, “Now we’ll do the commercial for Mamzelle Dainty Self-Me-Wipes.”

I said, “I believe Konstantin has a family to get back to, and we have to . . . we . . .” Ah, relief! “What happened to Risk?” I asked.

“It sucked,” Alfie replied.

Konstantin got up. “I should go,” he said. “Tyepyer ya znayu . . . Nichevo. Spasiba.” Now I know . . . Never mind. Thank you.

Konstantin shook hands with us all very firmly, in the Russian style, and left.

“He’s cute,” said Cosgrove. “Is he hung?”

“Goodness,” I remarked, “it’s just time for make-your-own banana splits, after all!”

You don’t have to repeat that to the likes of Cosgrove and Alfie. They ran into the kitchen and were immediately discussing the contributions of hot fudge sauce, walnut topping, and silver sprinkles to the creation of a perfect banana split.

Good, I thought, as I dialed Peter Keene’s office number. They’ll be distracted for hours.

Peter was on site and free to speak. He came on with “You told Stizha to go back to his family and forget me, didn’t you?”

“How did you—”

“Oh, I sent him to you.”

“Fine, but why?”

“Well, didn’t I figure out that what you’d say would be what he needed to hear?”

“You sent him to me to show him off.”

Two beats. Then: “He’s beautiful, isn’t he? Almost miraculous. Such love in him! You know what his favorite thing is? Sexually? To be massaged! He loves that more than . . . well, and how he laughs during it! A child at pinball . . .”

“He’s not a child and you can’t have him anymore. He has to—”

“Go back to his biological role, I know that.”

“No! To his first loves!”

“I don’t mind. I met this—just a second.” He fielded some business from a co-worker. “At the Roxy, last week, I ran into this incredible youth who’s a writer, and when I said I was . . . Well, true enough, not a
published
writer. But later that night at his place he showed me some stories. I made him read them aloud in the nude. They need work, but he’s been . . . well, you can imagine . . . very . . . accommodating . . .”

“His idea of breaking in is letting you fuck him.”

“Not so loud. Anyway, I’m trading expertise for . . . Well, he’s no Saint Francis in the first—”

“You’re taking the loss of Konstantin quite well. I congratulate you.”

“Well, of course he has my number, if he . . . Yes. Quite well. He has that lovely family.”

“I am totally shocked, let me tell you, that you fucked him neat. Just because he doesn’t understand condoms doesn’t—”

“No, no, no, my slightly irksome but so dear fellow. Let’s see,
I’ve
never been fucked, so how can—”

“You don’t know what devious routes this evil thing can pave to seep into us,” I insisted. “It’s brilliant and undying. It’ll get into napkins and french toast before it’s finished.”

“Well. . .”

“Just start rubbering up, will you? Because, let’s face it, no one’s going to slam out of your apartment just because you want to use a raincoat. Men who want to get fucked will take it any way they can find it.”

“You have contempt for bottoms, don’t you?”

That was unjust enough to hang up on.

Now we’ve had the middle. There are three endings—unavoidable, because it was a busy time. First came the departure of Alfie and Monica, whose parents picked them up at our very doorstep, out in front of the building. Alfie raced into their arms, crowing about all the things he’d done and seen. Monica moved more grandly, like a gondola on one of Venice’s many festal days, high in the water, untroubled and without need of harbor. Monica’s father, Stephen Tomjoy, listened to a few seconds of her complaints and knelt down and held her. Ha! She was limp, silent, and in love. Monica, I know you at last!

“So you’re the famous Bud,” Dennis Savage’s sister told me as we shook hands. Linda. She really did look like him. Same hair and eyes. “I’ve been hearing one tale or another since the two of you were thrown out of the Boy Scouts.”

“They
called
it the Boy Scouts,” I said. “But it’s really the Hitler Youth, and fair folk everywhere regard separation from it as honorable.”

“Oh, Stephen was thrown out, too. It’s nothing to worry about.”

I turned to Dennis Savage. “You never mentioned this.”

Stephen addressed us now. (All right, he’s good-looking, but enough with the straights.) “We tipped over a couple of cows,” says Stephen, “and they got real strict with us. S’okay.”

Stephen has Alfie on his shoulders, feinting in directions as Alfie screams in delight. Monica turns a dour eye upon this, and Linda tells her, “Pride goeth before the fall.”

“Everything’s so boring, Mother.”

Linda sighs—
just
in the manner in which Dennis Savage sighs, and I’ll bring that up a bit later. Linda says, to Monica, “Don’t ask how Paris was, or anything.”

“That’s right, I won’t.”

“How was Paris?” Dennis Savage asks his sister.

She smiles. She holds up her right forefinger. She touches his nose with it. “You should go, big brother. It’s way different. You say to yourself, Why don’t I live
here?
Then you think, Where would I get a sitter I can trust? What about Kentucky Fried Chicken? Sneakers are too expensive. It’s good to be home and see you. Are you okay?”

“Daddy!” Monica calls out, in regard to the shoulder-riding of Alfie. “Take him down! Everyone’s staring!”

Linda considers Dennis Savage. It’s funny, these two. They really know each other, and he’s so quiet now. “You miss Mom?” she asks.

Her husband, Stephen, is rampaging around with Alfie on his back. “I’m the Candymouse of Toronto!” Alfie cries. “Everybody loves me, and I am free for candy!”

I ask Linda, “Did Gramma Tomjoy’s T-Rex arrive?”