Remembering Christmas (5 page)

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Authors: Drew Ferguson

BOOK: Remembering Christmas
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“Boring . . . Boring . . . Boring,” Leo announced. “Doesn't anyone want to win the Loving Cup?”
“Buckle your seat belts, boys,” Alex crowed. “You're about to hear about my worst Christmas ever, which also happens to be James's worst Christmas ever, but I'm better at telling it, so with your permission, James, I will proceed.”
“By all means,” James conceded.
“So, after five years of going our separate ways for Christmas, I was finally able to persuade James to come to Birmingham with me, pleading I needed his protection because my daddy was going to kill me when he found out I'd quit my job at Doubleday to try to make it as an agent. He could pop and spit like Mount Vesuvius once you got him irritated.”
Unlike most of the men in their circle, who predictably kicked their families a rung or two up the social ladder in their provincial hometowns, Alex didn't exploit time and geography to recreate a more polished, serene, fictionalized version of his early years. Alex insisted on portraying his Alabama childhood as a particularly raucous episode of
The Simpsons.
The colorful caricatures of a bulging-eyed, sputtering Armenian patriarch and his slightly daft, kindhearted wife bore no resemblance to his reserved and formal parents, the owners of a chain of Oriental rug emporiums, advertised on late-night television across north and central Alabama as perpetually “Going Out of Business, All Prices Slashed.” Mom-bo-la and Pop-bo-la, as he'd christened them as a tonguetied toddler, doted on their only son's every whim.
“So, I said to James after Christmas Eve dinner and a little too much sparkling wine, I have to admit, I said, ‘James, I am going to die if we have to sit in this house the rest of the evening with Mom-bo-la and Pop-bo-la and fall asleep watching
White Christmas
on television.' And so we got in the car and drove downtown, where, of course, every bar and club was shuttered and the sidewalks pulled in, and I said, ‘James, pull into the back lot, near that door with the red light over the entrance, I think we can find something to drink right there'.”
“I wish you could have seen the look on his face when we walked into The Teddy Bear Lounge, scene of my earliest crimes against nature. Every drag queen in Alabama and half of Mississippi was in that tiny room, and the fabulous Miss Brandy Alexander was emcee of the midnight show, and a half dozen horse-hung dancers were shaking their weenies on the bar. I spotted him right away, before James. The most astonishingly beautiful man we had ever laid eyes on, the spitting image of Steve McQueen, military, rough, and masculine. He told us his name was Chance, right out of Tennessee Williams, perfect. . . .”
Actually, his name had been Chauncey, James recalled, but why ruin a good story?
“And I said to James, right then and there, ‘That man is our Christmas present to each other.' James, always the practical one, pointed out that Chance was Air Force, on leave, staying with his sister, and, it being Christmas, the motels were full, you know, no room in the inn. . . .”
There were vacancies at every motel in Birmingham, but, again, the truth was rarely conducive to the creation of myth.
“I pointed out to James that Mom-bo-la and Pop-bo-la's room was ALL the way down a long hallway, and they were both heavy sleepers. . . .”
“Oh, God, you didn't! Please tell us you didn't!”
“We most certainly did. Several times, as a matter of fact. Though, it was a bit disappointing as Steve McQueen turned out not to be as impressive as hoped,” Alex said, using the universal hand signal for tiny dick. “And not exactly the man we'd expected.”
Alex, as always, had his audience eating out of his hand, begging for more.
“Well, Miss Helium Heels was an insatiable bottom, begging us to take turns, and God knows it was fun, until the heat of passion began to subside, and James and I realized that, unfortunately, Chance wasn't as
clean
as one would hope a boy with his particular sexual needs would be.”
“Oh, God, stop! Stop! I can't stand it!” the adoring chorus pleaded.
Alex couldn't be deterred, and, in fact, was encouraged by the slapping of the table and the gasping-for-breath, gut-busting laughter.
“And I said to James, ‘James, we are just going to have to suck it up and get this room April fresh and Laura Ashley perfect before Mom-bo-la wakes up in the morning.'”
James still recalled the panic striking his heart when he had emerged from the bathroom with an armful of towels and an aerosol can of air freshener and stood face–to-face with Mrs. Bedrossian standing in the hallway, modestly clutching her bathrobe at her neck as she politely inquired if James wanted some help. He thanked his quick wits for coming up with the plausible excuse that he had spilled a large glass of water on the comforter. To his great relief, she never asked why the crisis required a can of Glade Ocean Scent Room Freshener.
“And, after we got that boy all cleaned up to send him on his merry way, why he wrapped a bath towel around his waist and plopped in the armchair, and started waving his foot, announcing he hoped we hadn't finished because he was ready for some more. Just imagine that damn cracker, not having the good sense to stick his tail between his legs and sneak away in shame, luxuriating in my mama's easy chair and telling us he wanted more!”
Leo, of course, had heard this story a thousand times before, but it was still the obvious winner, as a tale of the sexual humiliation of a beautiful man was impossible to beat. After the hearty round of applause finally faded, and the tears of laughter were wiped from their cheeks, Leo stood and invited the group to the unveiling of his Cy Twombly, which had been set up on an easel beside the tree. Philip leaned over and whispered into James's ear, asking if these exhibitions didn't remind him of going to the showroom to look at the new Chevrolets. James was more forgiving, insisting he looked forward to the opportunity to view a great work of art outside the sterile confines of a museum.
Armando was soliciting orders for after-dinner drinks, which James politely declined. He was already plotting an early exit, pleading his monumental trek across the Appalachians in the morning. The closest bathroom was occupied, and he waited a few minutes, hopping from one leg to another, finally deciding Alex and Leo would prefer he invade the inner sanctum of the apartment searching for available plumbing rather than pee all over their hardwood floors.
He was taking one of those long, grateful-to-be-alive pisses when someone jiggled the doorknob, following with a light tapping on the door when their entrance was barred.
“Just a minute. I'm almost finished,” James insisted, irritated by the rude impatience of the intruder.
“It's me. Open the door.”
James unlocked the door, and Alex slipped inside quickly, his hands down James's pants in record time, his mouth eager for a kiss.
“Come on, Alex. Cut it out,” James protested, amused by his former lover's predictability. The opportunity for a little quickie with his old boyfriend while Leo was under the same roof, only a few rooms away, was too exciting for Alex to resist.
“Why?” Alex insisted, trying to force James's pants to his knees. “We haven't done it in, what? Forever?”
“I'll make a deal with you. If you find me so irresistible, then come over to my place one night next week, and we can get undressed and lie in bed and I'll make love to you without needing to worry about Leo's breaking down the door,”
“Okay,” Alex sighed, disappointed.
James's fast thinking had gotten him off the hook without offending Alex, who he knew had no interest in leisurely lovemaking with no risk or possibility of being caught in the act.
“I have to pee anyway,” Alex said, as James closed the door behind and walked down the hallway, where he encountered Archie Duncan peeking into doorways, searching for a place to empty his bladder.
“There you are, James. I was looking for you. I was worried you'd left.”
“There's a bathroom at the end of the hall. The door's closed, but no one's in there. Just walk right in,” James offered, chuckling at the thought of sending an innocent man into the mouth (literally) of danger.
“Be back in a minute,” Archie promised, and James, without saying good-bye to anyone, asked Armando for his scarf and took the elevator six floors to the lobby where he found a cab conveniently waiting to take him away.
 
Tomorrow morning was hours away, and James wasn't quite ready to go home. He wanted to feel fresh and young and full of expectation, and, in Manhattan, there was only one place a middle-aged man in need of a drink could go to feel like chicken, so he gave the cabdriver the address of The Townhouse.
As usual, the bar was packed with gentleman of a certain age who looked to be out long past their bedtimes. They gathered in the piano lounge, sipping strong drinks through swizzle sticks, singing their blessed little hearts out. A quartet requested Irving Berlin's “Snow” and received an appreciative round of applause for a rendition that matched the classic movie version note-fornote. A dark-haired boy, conspicuous in an oversized, hooded parka, sidled up next to James, trying to make eye contact. James walked away, preferring to engage his hustlers through respectable agencies, and retreated to a quiet corner to be alone with his thoughts.
He'd had every intention of announcing his recent lifealtering decision to become an Ulster County property owner to his soon-to-be former housemates tonight, but, somehow, the opportunity to casually introduce the subject into the dinner conversation never arose. He was going to have to take the coward's way out and present it to them in writing, something short and kind, the kind of correspondence he would want to receive if he was getting the grand kiss-off from someone he'd spent entire summers with for most of his adult life. It was probably for the better, breaking the news in a formal letter, delivering a controlled message that the time had arrived for new and different adventures. He didn't want to risk any hurtful casual words or remarks since, Felix aside, he was fond of each of them. But the truth was, they depressed him, them and the entire Fire Island scene. The nagging feeling that an era of his life had passed and it was time to move on had crystallized last summer as the sun rose on the beach and he found himself bobbing and weaving in a sea of dancing, shirtless men, many of a certain age, their hair closely cropped or shaved to camouflage telltale signs of graying or balding, their bodies shaped and defined by protein diets and free weights, their eyes, glazed by pharmaceuticals and exhaustion, squinting into the blinding rays of morning. Zombies, that's what they resembled. Zombie lemmings cursed by the desire for eternal youth and perpetual adolescence.
He could never hate the Island and still longed for the Cherry Grove of his youth, the magical place of quiet evenings in Ernst's tiny cottage, sitting Indian-style on the braided carpets in the soft glow of the kerosene lamps, listening to writers he had admired in college swap recipes for lamb biryani and argue the merits of the translators of the Russian masterworks. But age and mortality and exorbitant real estate prices had swept away the past like the winter storms that ravaged the dunes, and Fire Island Pines had become the playground of investment bankers and insurance executives and bankruptcy lawyers from Wall Street firms, a place where status was ranked by perfect abdomens and access to a supply of party drugs.
“So it was a success?”
James was shaken from his reverie by the sudden appearance of a vaguely familiar face.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“The tie. Did your friend like the tie? Blood orange. Unusual color.”
“I am so sorry. I didn't mean to be rude,” James apologized, recognizing the clerk who had sold him Ernst's tie that morning.
“No apology necessary. Happens all the time. No one remembers me out of context,” the clerk laughed.
“Yes. Yes. He loved it. He even took off the one around his neck so he could wear it. Thanks for your help.”
“Don't thank me. I would have recommended something quieter, but you obviously know your friend's taste.”
James refrained from commenting that the lavender cravat the sales clerk was wearing wasn't exactly subtle.
“I wouldn't have chosen it for myself, of course. A bright standard rep tie is my limit on outrageousness,” James confessed, resenting being so insecure that he felt it necessary to defend his good taste to a supercilious stranger.
“Oh, my God, I don't believe it,” the clerk gasped, his attention completely distracted. “I think that's Archie Duncan over at the bar. I read in the
Post
he's been cast in a revival of
Gypsy.
”
It was the perfectly awful ending to a perfectly awful day. James wished he could fade into the wallpaper, an invisibility act worthy of a Marvel Comics superhero. With any luck, a swarm of fans would descend on Archie Duncan, demanding autographs and offering e-mail addresses and telephone numbers. James would slip by unnoticed and disappear into the night.

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