Sottopassaggio (15 page)

I suddenly wish they were playing
Small-town Boy
, or
Tell Me Why
instead of this smooth funky house. I wonder when club music stopped being fun, stopped being music you could whoop and shout and jump to, when the tunes people sang along with, the b52's or even Sylvester finally disappeared from the clubs.

I pay for the drinks and pocket the change, pushing my way back to Tom who has been squeezed away from the bar.

“Thanks,” he says, reaching for the drink. “I ran out of cash, so…”

“So what happened?” I ask. “Not like you to be pissy.”

He shakes his head. “Oh, some arsehole had a go at me on the dance-floor. He tried it on with me once, and got upset when I refused.”

I nod and sip my beer. “What did he say?”

“When? Today?”

I nod.

Tom laughs. “He didn't actually say much. He just pinched my waist and said,
Oh dear, Tom. If you can pinch more than an inch
.”

I grimace. “Ouch.”

“In the middle of the fucking dance floor.”

I pull a face. “That is pretty rude,” I say.
“Arsehole.”

Tom nods. “I know; gay men are the most fat-phobic society on earth.”

I shrug. “Except maybe models; anyway, they're only trying to cover how unworthy they feel,” I say. “It's not really their fault.” I open my eyes wide. “Society
made
them feel that way.”

Tom shrugs. “Did society make them arseholes too?” he asks.

I laugh. “No, you're probably right. They did that all themselves.”

He sips his drink again then frowns. “Can I ask you something?” he says.

I nod and smile.

“And you'll answer honestly?” he asks intensely.

I nod again, beginning to worry that he might ask me how I feel about him. Jenny hasn't prepared me for that one.

“Do you think I'm fat?” he asks. “I mean… I know I'm not skinny, but do I look fat?”

I laugh. “Absolutely not,” I say.

He grabs my free hand and slides it under his T-shirt, placing it on his waist.

“I mean, there's a bit of fat there… But I'm 40, right? That's normal, isn't it?”

The contact with his hand, his waist, his body, is giving me the stirrings of an erection. I laugh, pull my hand away and shake my head.

“Tom, if you didn't have fat, you'd be dead. Your body is perfect.”

Tom pulls his T-shirt back down and looks left and right.

“Yeah,” he says. “Fuck ‘em.”

“Tom, really,” I say. “You're…” I shrug.

Tom looks at me and frowns. “Go on?” he says.

I decide to make a joke of it. I think of a character from a comedy series, who says everyone is gorgeous.

“You're
gorgeous!
” I laugh.

He breaks into a grin. “Well thanks,” he says.
“You're pretty lovely too.” He stares into my eyes. “I'm glad you came back,” he adds.

I swallow and glance towards the bar.

“Did you see that guy?” I ask, changing the subject. “The one that looks like Jimmy Somerville?”

Tom shakes his head. “Nope.”

I step back towards the bar and peer through the crowd.

“Still there,” I say, nodding towards the end of the bar. “Over in the corner, alone.”

Tom follows my gaze, and then breaks into a grin.

“That
is
Jimmy Somerville,” he laughs.

I smile and shake my head. “Yeah right,” I say. “That's Jimmy Somerville twenty years ago. Think about it.”

Tom nods, then peers at the distant figure again.

“No that
is
him,” he insists.

I look again at the figure. “If that's Jimmy Somerville I want to know what skin cream he uses!” I laugh.

Tom laughs. “He probably uses fresh sperm,” he says.

I open my mouth in mock outrage. “You're getting confused with Marc Almond,” I say.

“Well, he
has
aged well, I give you that,” Tom says.

“It's
so
not him,” I insist.

Tom looks at me coquettishly. “I bet you,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

“You bet me what?”

“Dinner!” he says.

I grin and reach forward to shake his hand, then I start to move away.

Tom grabs my shoulder. “Where are you going?” he asks.

I shrug. “To ask him!”

Tom groans.

The Jimmy look-alike is propped in the darkest
corner of the bar, and as I approach, I realise that the shadows may be hiding wrinkles, but as I get closer I'm certain that it's not him; the guy looks twenty-five for heaven's sake.

“Excuse me?” I say.

The man glares at me over his beer.

“Are you Jimmy Somerville? Because I betted that you weren't and…”

The man forces a tired grin and nods. “I am,” he says with a sigh. His accent is thick, Scottish.

I laugh. “Sorry,” I say. “It's just, well, I said you looked too young to be… Erm.”

He wrinkles his brow and nods at me to continue.

“Well, to be
you
, really.”

He looks at me tiredly and rolls his eyes. I start to realise that he thinks I'm some drawling fan, thinks that I'm simply fawning over him.

“I said you looked like Jimmy Somerville twenty years ago,” I add, blushing at the realisation that I'm making it worse.

“Soo,” he says with a nod. “Am I supposed to be flattered?” He pronounces supposed, suppoosed.

I realise the awfulness of fame, the impossibility of accepting a simple compliment, and at the same time I start to feel annoyed at his arrogance.

I shrug. “Take it how the fuck you want,” I laugh. “But if someone told
me
I looked too young to be me,
I'd
be flattered.”

With that, I give him a slap on the shoulder, and spin back through the crowd towards Tom, or rather towards where Tom was.

I find Tom on the dance floor, shimmying again with his tranny admirer. Tonight she's wearing a leather mini-skirt and thigh high boots.

He makes a drinking gesture and points to where he has left my pint. I down half of the remaining lager before heading across the dance floor towards them.

“So?” he asks.

I nod. “You're right. I owe you dinner,” I shout.

“
This
is
Belinda
!” Tom says, tipping his head to one side.

The tranny dances up and gives me her limp hand. I bow and kiss it.

“Good evening,” she shouts.

“We have to stop meeting like this!” I laugh, but when she leans forward indicating that she can't hear I simply shrug to show that it is of no importance.

The music is cheesy house and the dance-floor has divided into two distinct zones. The muscle boys at the far end, and everyone else, the trannies, the girly-boys and the fully clothed on our side, near the bar.

Tom touches my shoulder and leans into my ear. “So?” he asks.

I nod. “I said! You're right.”

He shakes his head. “The
skin
cream?” he asks.

I laugh again. “I don't know!” I say. “I forgot.”

He pouts petulantly.

“He's a twat though,” I say.

Tom nods.

“Disappointing,” I add.

I dance half-heartedly and watch Belinda grooving her hips until the DJ fades into a track I know, Late Night Alumni's
Empty Streets
. I start to groove
seriously and watch as Tom and Belinda do the same.

When a hand touches my shoulder, I turn. It's Jimmy grinning stupidly at me. I pucker my brow in surprise, unsure how to react.

“Hey,” he shouts, addressing me, then Tom. “Is that true?”

Tom dances forwards and smiles at him. “What?” he asks.

“Did this twat bet? Did he bet that I'm not me?” Jimmy says.

Tom laughs and nods his head exaggeratedly, in time with the music.

Jimmy slaps me on the back and laughs. “OK, sorry mate,” he says. “I thought you were taking the piss.”

I shake my head and smile back.

Jimmy nods. “That's cool,” he grins with an exaggerated nod. “That's really cool.”

I nod.

“Hey man!” he laughs. “I'm made up,” he says. “I'm really made up!”

Still grinning, he grooves through the crowd and takes up position at the shoreline, where the sea of semi-naked muscle-bunnies meets the land of the clothed.

Tom leans towards me and says, “He isn't made up. He's off his fucking head!”

I nod. “Yeah, he seems cool though.”

I glance across the dance-floor and Jimmy gives me a grin and a thumbs-up.

The music shifts and speeds. A laser creates a green ceiling of light just above our heads.

Cigarette smoke swirls, caught in the light like clouds in a fast-forward sky. People lift their hands, irresistibly drawn to break the beam.

Belinda grooves ever more seriously and starts to pout. Actually, I realise, she is starting to gurn, starting to produce the strange lip movements that go with ecstasy.

I wipe my brow.

“Fucking hot!” Tom shouts.

“Take your top off!” I say, hopefully thinking of the swirling hair on his chest.

He shakes his head and nods towards the muscle boys. “Too much competition!” he says.

A jet of dry ice fills the air, and momentarily everyone disappears. The green laser ceiling becomes a brilliant swirling mass.

As the fog fades, I see that Belinda has Tom's T-shirt. She's waving it above her head.

Jimmy reappears through the mist, I watch him dance and flashback to the
Small Town Boy
video clip. I realise that he still moves the same way; still makes the tight little digging movements of the eighties.

That song! It defined a new era. An era when an out and out gay record could feasibly become a major hit. What optimism that simple success gave us.

People are moving from the bar to the dance floor, squashing us ever closer. Tom's chest is tantalisingly close. I let my arm brush against his skin.

He moves towards me and lays a hand across my back and shouts, “Stop it!” in my ear.

I'm amazed that he has noticed. I shake my head and decide to bluff. “Stop what?”

Tom steps backwards and starts to dance, starts to do the same little digging movement with his arms.

“That!” he shouts, nodding towards Jimmy. “He'll realise!”

I grin dumbly. It's true. I've reverted to my 80's college dance, the Jimmy Somerville chicken wing. I make an “oops” face and force myself into a different movement; but it's surprisingly hard.

A bare-chested guy pushes towards me from my right and then elbows me out of the way. He inserts himself into the space between Tom and myself.

I feel irritated, but I look at the shape of his arse, the smooth back descending into low cut blue jeans, and decide it's not so bad.

I glance up at Tom, try to catch his eye, but he's not impressed. In fact, he's frowning at him. I see that Belinda is glaring too, and moving forwards.

Then I see the man lean towards Tom, see him start to speak. My antenna is registering trouble, something about the man's stance, the way he's stretching his shoulders, spreading his feet, making himself look bigger, like a cat arching its back.

He reaches out and blocks Belinda's path with his left arm. Tom's face shifts to an expression of outrage; Belinda knocks his hand away and steps forward again. In her boots she's actually a good four inches taller than him.

“Why don't you fuck off to the children's corner,” I hear her say.

The man pushes her sideways with his arm. He pushes her hard and she totters and wobbles in her high heels. For a moment it looks as if she has found her feet, and she sways in a circular motion, seemingly finding her centre of gravity. But then she teeters backwards once again and collapses into the crowd.

“I wouldn't fuck you if you begged me,” the guy spits. “You fat bastard!”

A clearing is forming around us. Tom shakes his head, his mouth open, apparently lost for words.

Unsure how to react, I move towards Tom's side, but the guy blocks my path with his right arm, knocking
me
backwards.

People have stopped dancing, most are watching the dispute, some look concerned, some amused, excited by the action.

Belinda reappears and she's crimson with anger. She pushes between Tom and his aggressor and points a finger at the man's chest. “Honey,” she says. “You
so
need to fuck off.”

“Who the fuck are you?” the guy shouts.

“And
perlease
, get a plastic surgeon on those
ears
!” she laughs.

He lurches towards her, but as he raises his arm, as he moves his hand back to punch her, his elbow sweeps an arc only inches from my face, and without thinking, I grab it, spoiling his swing.

He shakes me free and using his left hand instead, places his hand, fingers stretched, across Belinda's face. In an obscene gesture he simply pushes her from the picture.

Tom looks around, and apparently seeing someone he knows, shouts, “Do something! Get the fucking bouncer!”

The guy has now turned to face me. I note he has a scar across his forehead.

“Another one!” he says. “Who the fuck are
you
?”

I get my first glimpse of his blue eyes. They hold a bottomless rage, a deep unhappy drunken madness I've seen somewhere before. And I know that there's no clever answer, no easy way to stop this spiral of violence. He's out of control.

I swallow hard and instinctively pull my glasses from my nose, and slide them into my shirt pocket. But just as I stretch my neck, just as I prepare my body for action, the music stops and the dance floor is drenched in a blinding white light.

Momentarily distracted, the guy glances left and right, then a huge bouncer – with arms the thickness of my waist – pushes me out of the way and grabs him by the shoulder. He looks like Steve, the bouncer from the Jerry Springer show; in fact the whole scene looks pretty much that way.