Floridian nights, p.31
Floridian Nights, page 31
He turned away angry. “Excuse me for living.”
“Now, come on, Rick,” Gary said, controlling his own temper, “be fair. I wasn’t taking your head off. I appreciate the fact that you want me to be a saint. But I’m telling you, I can’t be.”
Rick turned back toward Gary. “I’m not asking you to be a saint. I just want you to be happy. And cutting off an old friend doesn’t make anybody happy–”
“I’m only human, kid. Okay?”
“Okay. That’s enough for me. I just think you’d feel better if–”
“Rick. Drop it.”
“Okay, Gare. Okay.”
•
Key West didn’t look particularly remarkable on approach, until one reached the old part of town on the western half of the island. There, a rich mixture of architecture and vegetation fed Northern fantasies of the perfect Southern hideaway. Gary and Rick found their lodgings – a big yellow house with white columns and a wide front porch with an old-fashioned swing – on one of the major thoroughfares radiating off the main commercial drag, Duval Street.
As they entered the lobby with its white overhead ceiling fans and white wicker furniture, a large man with hair and pants to match and a flowered shirt emerged from behind the counter and took a surprised Gary in a bear hug, calling him by name.
“Ken?” Gary said in surprise, “Ken Twilley? What are you doing here? We called your place this morning and the guy on the phone said you were full–”
“We are. Allie and I bought this place, too, about a year ago. You remember Lou and Henry?”
“No.”
“You met them once at our place. They owned this. Henry died about, oh, a year and a half ago, and then Lou got sick. He asked us to buy because he said he knew we’d take good care of their place. We really couldn’t afford it, but…” Ken looked around him, and right through Rick. “So where’s Becker?”
Gary didn’t flinch. “He’s gone, Ken. I lost him three years ago.”
Ken paled. “Omigod, Gary! I’m so sorry! I should know better than to assume with anyone nowadays, but I guess I thought–”
“It wasn’t AIDS. A heart attack.”
“I was gonna say, he didn’t seem sick the last time you were here–”
“He wasn’t.”
“Three years ago? That long?”
“About six months after the last time we were here.”
“I can’t believe it. And I can’t believe it’s been that long since you were here. And Marty?–”
“He lost Roger, too.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me. I mean, I knew Roger was sick. You should tell Marty we miss him down here.”
Gary could feel Rick watching him as he replied with a shrug, “Yeah, well…”
“God, I’m so sorry, Gary,” Ken repeated.
“Thanks, Ken.” There was a pause, then Gary turned around and said, “Ken, this is Rick Fennell. Rick, Ken Twilley.”
The two shook hands with little apparent warmth, and Ken darted his eyes over to Gary, then raised one brow. “Well,” he said, his tone much changed, “Let’s get you checked in.”
•
Once they were ensconced in their room – a bright, sunny chamber at the end of a second-floor hallway, overlooking the side yard and the pool area in the back of the house – Rick said, “If you guys were so tight, how come he didn’t know Becker was dead?”
“You’ve never been to a place like this, have you?” Rick shook his head. “It’s a different kind of relationship. When you come someplace like this a couple of times, they put you on their mailing list, and you get their Christmas card every year, and then whenever you come back, they treat you like long-lost family. But you wouldn’t – you wouldn’t send a death notice to people like Ken and Allie.”
“They know Marty, too?”
“The four of us stayed at their place the first time we all came down together.”
“He’s awful good at remembering names. They must get a lot of different people.”
“It’s his job, if you think about it. Like I said, everybody’s treated like family.”
“You’re treated like family,” Rick emphasized.
“Well, he just met you.”
“You didn’t introduce me as your lover. That might’ve helped.” Gary didn’t have a response to that, so he just shrugged, which caused Rick to press on, in a more heated tone of voice: “How come?”
“I don’t know. It just happened, that’s all. If you think they have the wrong impression, I’ll make sure they understand–”
“I wouldn’t wanna make you do anything you wouldn’t do of your own accord.”
That came out sarcastic, verging on bitterness. Discouraged, Gary said, “Kid, are we starting again here?”
“No. Just forget it, okay?”
Gary knew he should say or do something else to make amends. But, even though they’d never stayed at this particular guest house, the whole Key West atmosphere that now enveloped him reminded him powerfully of Becker, and that kept him from making any such gesture.
It was a fairly hot and decidedly humid day, and Gary was worn out by the drive through the Keys. Rick, on the other hand, seemed eager to explore his new environment. When Gary demurred, Rick allowed as to how it might be fun to carry out his first reconnaissance of Key West alone. “Fine with me,” Gary replied, noting with satisfaction that they’d avoided another fight.
As Gary lay alone under the respite of the ceiling fan, Becker came back to him again, as strongly as he had in the car on Alligator Alley. They had first arrived in Key West six or seven years ago, abandoning a nasty New York winter for the legendary resort. It was their first attempt at a winter vacation, and both of them had taken to the island right away – especially BB, Southern boy that he was.
They were staying at a guest house, though they hadn’t yet discovered Ken and Allie’s place. As was their wont on trips together, as soon as they arrived from the airport, following two lengthy flights and a change of planes in Miami, they made love. When they were sated and had napped in each other’s arms, they ambled down poolside (all Key West guest houses seemed to have a pool in the back or side yard that served as the social center). Georgia Peach was wearing a loud, Hawaiian-style shirt, and turning more heads than usual. An equally striking young man, wearing the briefest of Speedos and the kind of wraparound sunglasses that reminded Gary of Yasser Arafat, initiated conversation as he and BB walked by:
“Don’t I know you?”
Becker swerved his head in the direction of the questioner and said amiably, “I doubt it.”
“No, I’m sure I’ve seen you. You’re a model, aren’t you?”
This was posed with dead earnestness, not a trace of humor. But Becker laughed. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, my friend.” As usual he offered his hand and his name.
This gesture caused the other young man to lower his sunglasses in theatrical fashion. At that, Gary instantly recognized him. Georgia Peach hadn’t the slightest notion who he was, even when the man gave his own name and shook hands. “You should be a model,” he persisted.
“Oh, right.”
“Really. I’ve never met anyone with such a – natural freshness.”
“Or maybe a fresh naturalness.” That was Gary, piping up.
“I don’t believe I’ve introduced my lover. Gary Gaines.”
The young man gave Gary a look that told him he was totally irrelevant, and began pressing BB again until the latter abruptly excused himself and said, “C’mon, Buckeye, let’s split. I wanna check out the town.”
Gary could tell that Becker was annoyed. As they headed toward Duval Street he said, “Do you know who that was, Georgia Peach?”
“Yeah. An asshole who cruises people when their sweethearts are standing right there.”
“He’s also one of the most famous fashion designers in the world right now.”
That stopped BB in his tracks. “No! You shittin’ me?”
“Uh-uh,” Gary replied with a shake of his head.
Becker frowned, then said, “He’s still an asshole,” and they resumed walking. When they hit Duval Street, the cruising among the heavily gay crowd seemed particularly incessant. After about ten minutes of window shopping, Becker muttered, “Buckeye, I wonder if we picked the right place after all.”
Gary had pushed for this vacation, so he was nonplussed. “What’s the matter with it?”
“It’s one big meat market.”
“So? I trust you. Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course. I just wish it wasn’t so intense.”
“I can leave you alone if I’m cramping your style.” It was the kind of playful talk they indulged in all the time, sublimely confident with each other. But it was true that in that era, prior to the age of AIDS, a gay couple could feel almost as alien at a gay resort as straight tourists.
“What do you wanna do now?” Becker said unenthusiastically.
“I wanna get some postcards for Marty and Julia and Ira.”
The shop Gary chose for this errand was on the northern end of Duval Street, where things were more traditionally touristy. Indeed, it was an oasis of calm from the street scene outside, and most of the postcards were disappointingly tasteful. They liked sending ridiculous ones to their friends.
Two classic little old ladies were shopping for cards, too; Gary noticed them whispering together, then the one without the sun hat went out onto the sidewalk, while the other took their purchases – cards and potpourri – to the register. Probably talking about the strange young men all around, he thought; from the looks of it, we are in the straight part of town.
He and Becker gathered their own selections and got into line behind the lady in the sun hat. She gave her items to the young man behind the register, an engaging character with wire-rimmed glasses and thinning, ponytailed brown hair, free of the attitude that marked New York salespeople. Key West then seemed to be the last refuge of hippiedom.
“Will that be all, ma’am?” Gary heard him ask.
“Yes, thank you,” came the reply in a delicate voice, nearly a whisper.
“Hope you enjoy your visit here.”
“Oh, I’m sure we will.”
“Where you from, ma’am?”
“Michigan.”
“Your first visit?” the counter guy continued as he handed the woman her purchases.
“Oh, no,” she said in an even smaller voice, “I come here every January.” Then she added, barely audible but with clear pride, “With my lover.”
Gary turned back and smiled at Becker, who looked back at him in sheer delight. “Okay,” BB said with a nod and a grin. Key West would be all right after all, said his look. Sometimes that was as much as they needed to communicate.
Somewhere along the way, the daydreams of Becker became dreams. Asleep, Gary continued to dwell on that vacation. His unconscious conjured up their final afternoon back at poolside, when everybody at the guest house had become fairly comfortable with one another. The two of them had attained the status of the token devoted couple.
That last day, the designer had reappeared, having been absent most of the time. Becker, undaunted by the man’s fame, had heartily called out his name and asked him where the hell he’d been all week. The designer flashed a lascivious smile and said, “Having the time of my life. How about you?”
“We’ve had a great time.”
“Really?” This was said with a certain amount of boredom, but Becker either didn’t catch it or chose not to; instead, he mortified Gary by launching into a lengthy recitation of activities like snorkeling in the Dry Tortugas (an hour’s flight away) and watching the dolphins at the training school that was then located in Key West.
The designer listened patiently throughout this monologue, and when Georgia Peach was finished, simply said, “Didn’t you do anything interesting? Didn’t you go dancing?”
“Yeah, we went dancing,” Becker said with a trace of defensiveness.
“With each other?”
“Well, of course with each other,” Becker said pleasantly, “who else?”
The designer gave him a long, cool look before he said, “I guess I was wrong about you being a model. There aren’t any retarded models.”
There was tittering around the pool. Becker was smart enough to know he’d been put down, but too much of a gentleman to get into a sniping match. Gary, however, was not: “On the other hand,” he broke in, “There doesn’t seem to be any lack of retarded designers.”
Gary thought it a direct hit, especially when the tittering grew louder and the offending man’s face grew angry, but now it was Becker who acted embarrassed, taking GG’s arm and saying to one and all, “Well, y’all have a good rest of your vacation, now.”
Back in their room, as they packed, he said to Gary, “You shouldn’t stoop to their level, Buckeye.”
“Why not?”
Becker looked over at him and smiled. “You just shouldn’t. But I thank you anyway for standing up for me. My hero.”
“Oh, go fuck yourself.”
“I have a better idea.”
“We haven’t got time, Georgia Peach.”
“You’re no fun at all. We got all the time in the world.”
All the time in the world. Gary thought about that again when he awoke. Within a few years, Becker was dead. And so, incidentally, was the famous fashion designer.
21.
It was well past the heat of the day when he awoke, but the sunlight was still brilliant. Rick apparently hadn’t returned yet, so Gary bestirred himself and made his way down to the pool area in the back. Ken was there, a cold drink in his hand, and when Allie, his shorter, bespectacled, balding, chubby mate, caught sight of Gary, he sprang from his chair to offer a large hug. “It’s so good to see you,” Allie said with great sincerity, then he added with equal fervor, “but it’s so terrible to hear about Becker.”
“Thanks, Allie. It’s good to see you, too.”
“Can we get you a cocktail?” Always with the cocktails; it had seemed to GG and BB that no matter where they’d gone, every gay couple that ever ran a guesthouse had this sort of ’50s preoccupation with cocktails in the afternoon. “I’ll take a beer, Ken. Thanks.”
As Ken fetched his drink, Allie continued, “So what happened, Gary? Ken said it was a heart attack? I just can’t believe it! I understand if you don’t wanna talk about it, but–”
“I don’t mind,” Gary said, and he realized it was true.
“He have a history of heart trouble?” Ken asked as he handed Gary a bottle of Amstel Light, apparently recalling Gary’s choice of brand despite a three-year absence.
“None at all. He just collapsed playing a pick-up game of basketball.”
“How horrible for you,” Allie said.
“It was.” He saw no point in going into the details of that long, awful night. “But, I guess, if I was going to lose BB, maybe I was luckier than, say, Marty was, watching Roger waste away like that.”
“It isn’t much of a choice,” Ken said.
“No, I guess it’s not.”
“I can’t get over it,” Allie persisted. “I mean – I hope you don’t mind us saying this, but – Ken and I were just saying, when he told me Becker was gone, how special you two were.”
“Thank you,” Gary said simply.
“No, really,” Allie stressed, as if he thought Gary didn’t believe them.
“You know, people like us are in a position where we see lots of couples come and go over the years,” Ken added, “and we were just saying, maybe we’d never seen any two guys as happy and as right for each other as you were.”
Gary was growing uncomfortable, and he tried to deflect it with humor: “That’s really sweet, guys, but I’ll bet you say that to all the boys–”
“We don’t,” Allie said gravely. “Honest. It was always a real joy to have the two of you here. It’s like you were an inspiration.”
“Yeah, well, that’s hard, being an inspiration for other people,” Gary replied, wondering whether it was “a real joy” for them now that he had shown up without Georgia Peach. “And it’s harder still when it’s over and one of you has to keep on living.”
The two older men looked at each other. “We didn’t mean to upset you, Gary,” Ken said. “We just really wanted you to know that that was how we felt about Becker and you.”
Gary could see they truly meant it. He took one of each of their hands in his and said, “Thanks, guys. It’s okay. Really. I appreciate it.” He paused, then added, “So let’s leave it at that. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”
But the times they lived in kept such conversations from lightness. Inevitably Ken and Allie’s account of their past three years led to the purchase of this second guest house, and thus to the loss of their friends Lou and Henry. Gary listened quietly, patiently, then tried to move them on to something innocuous like the weather. Eventually, though, they all fell into a brooding silence, which Allie attempted to lift. “So Ken tells me you’ve brought a little friend with you.”
Gary wasn’t keen on Allie’s phraseology, but he responded, “He’s more than a friend. I guess I should have made that clear.”
Ken gave a short laugh that Gary found singularly annoying, though he didn’t actually say anything, which prompted Gary to say, “I’m sorry. Did I say something funny?” He noticed that Allie appeared uneasy.
“Look, Gary,” Ken began, “It’s your business. I realize it’s been three years. You’re certainly entitled to a little action–” All Gary could think of was the way Rick had criticized this use of the word that first night in his apartment. “–though I never figured you for the twinkie type. And even if you did go for that kind, I think you could do better than such an ordinary one–”
“I think I should also make it clear, Ken, that I consider Rick something more than a fuck buddy.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure. But you – surely you don’t think of him in the same way as Becker.”
