Wednesday, August 20, 2003

Three blocks to the bar

It takes me 15 minutes tooling around the West End to find a parking place, and a full 30 seconds after turning off the ignition to burst into tears. For some reason, I can't get the song "Wild Boys" out of my head -- I've been hearing it since I put down the phone -- and Duran Duran is starting to piss me off. Lucky, I guess, there's a clean napkin under last Friday's takeout box. I staunch the flow, glance in the rearview, feed the meter and go.

Three blocks to the bar. I should have just called, but I can't think of much to say except invective. Breath. Door. Grin.

This place is crowded again. Is happy hour coming back in style? Scan the crowd. There he is.

"You look like hell," says The Giant Queen.

"Oh good," I say, "because I've been trying to find a look that works for me. Listen, I just came by to say I can't stay. I don't feel much--"

And a drink arrives. No quick exits. The curse of the regular. "I don't feel much like being around people right now." A look of concern. Genuine. "I love you, you know, but I can't stay." Sit. Sip. Breath.

"Do you want--"

Of course I don't want to talk about it. If I talk about it, I'll become rationally angry, which is worse than being irrationally angry. Reason, though easier to grip, is less cathartic.

"No. Thanks." Breath. "I had to park three blocks from here."

"Drink up. We'll go back to my place. Chad's off for the night. We can watch Queer Eye. I Tivoed it last night."

Who are these people?

"At lunch today," I say, "Paul told me he thought that program is nothing more than a gay minstrel show."

"Did he? I hope you had the sense not to--"

"To tell him that his stupid, bitchy Saturday night stage monologues are trite, crass and do more to demean gay people than any summer basic cable TV show ever could?"

Breath.

"No," I admit. "You'd think I'd have more sense than that."

"Well..."

"I do adore that show," I say. "I even learn things. Like, did you know that bit about putting hair product in from the back and working forward? I had no idea."

The Giant Queen lays a hand on my closely-cropped skull. "News you can use."

"And Carson Kressley is hardly a gay Steppin Fetchit." Damn. I've started. "He's not even Prancen Fetchit. He's Paul Lynde with much better fashion sense and no need for writers. It's a goddamned--"

Anyway. Breath.

"I wish," I say, "that Bravo or somebody would come out with a makeover show hosted by Arianna Huffington, Liza Minnelli and Nicole Kidman. They could call it A Straight Eye for the Queer Guys. Hell, they know better than Kyan how a beard likes to be treated, at least."

Sip.

"It's the same fuss Paul and everyone else raised about Queer as Folk," The Giant Queen says. "They want those shows to be all things to all faggots. Jupiter forbid anyone on TV should be fey or promiscuous or--"

"Like we don't all know a few dozen fey, promiscuous, club toys who think they have impeccable taste. In fact--"

"You do not have impeccable taste," says Jeff, arriving and falling into a chair with oblivious comic timing that Jennifer Aniston would kill for. "Let's talk about that tie for a start. And oh my Lord and Taylor, what do you exfoliate with? A belt sander?!"

"Q-fucking-E-D," says The Giant Queen.

The glass is empty. "I have to go," I say. Stand up. "I'll call you. Next week, maybe. I need to be a bear for a while." Hibernate. They know what it means.

Old shorthand. Friends I've never doubted.

Jeff looks chastened. Close, anyway. "Honey, are you--"

"Not really, no," I say. "I just need to be alone for a while. I can't--"

I realize, suddenly, that I've stuffed my hands in my pockets. I find the napkin. Blink. Breath. Here it comes.

"I'll call you. Next week."

Three blocks to the car.