Lives of the Circus Animals Page 5

  “Not at all. You deserve a reward for your very good deed. I’ll pour myself a fresh glass. Did you care to share in Mickey?”

  She didn’t but told Henry to go ahead. She’d drink one glass of wine and go home.

  While Henry curled up on the sofa, Jessie took the easy chair facing him. She picked a paperback book off the floor. “‘There is a new name for evil,’” she portentously declared. “Greville.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Greville. This novel. Big bestseller. About a psycho-killer genius with a yen for teenage girls. Like a trashy marriage between Lolita and Silence of the Lambs. Why’re you reading it?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then why is it here?”

  “I don’t know.” He took the book from her, a fat thing with a Tuscan landscape on the cover. “Maybe someone left it?”

  “You’ve had visitors?”

  “No. Alas.” He flipped pages, remembered nothing, then tossed the book aside. He took up his joint. “Cheers,” he said and lit up.

  The tip caught fire like a fuse, with tiny crackles and hisses. The bitter smoke filled his lungs, promising peace, calm, silence. He held it down and held out the joint. “Yes?” he huskily grunted.

  “No thank you.” She leaned back in her chair; there was no disapproval in her gaze, only amusement, even pride.

  It was fun to be the subject of a crush, so long as the crusher understood nothing could come of it. His batwoman knew he was gay. He never pretended otherwise, with her or anyone else. And she had a gay brother, that playwright fellow, so she must know. But just to be on the safe side, Henry thought he might reiterate the point.

  He exhaled a gray gust and took a breath of clean air.

  “What do you know about the Gaiety Theatre? Well, you wouldn’t, would you? It’s this old-fashioned queer club off Times Square. The costume designer took me there last month. I keep meaning to get back, but haven’t. It had the most beautiful Puerto Rican boys, strutting their stuff in G-strings and less. Very hot.” And he swallowed some wine, wondering what Jessie thought of that.

  “Why haven’t you been back? You afraid you’ll be recognized?”

  He burst out laughing. “You flatter me, my dear. Nobody knows me in this town. Oh, a few artsy theatergoers. But certainly no regulars at the Gaiety. No, in this country one isn’t famous until one appears in a hit movie or is a regular on a television series. Not that that would stop me. The world knows which way my wand points. I do not need to slip among the soldiery, King Henry in mufti.”

  “You underestimate your fame,” she said. “Anyone who cares about real theater art knows your work.”

  “Oh them.” He took another sip of smoke, but spit it out—his throat had not recovered from the first blast. “Those few, those blessed few. That blessed band of brothers. A few critics and old farts. I’ve given my life to ‘real theater art,’ as you call it. And it’s given me no satisfaction. Now that my youth has fled, I need to cash in on my so-called celebrity. Enough of this art shit. I want to make money. Bags of it. I want to sell out. If only I can find someone who’ll buy. Does that shock you, my dear?”

  She was smirking, not looking shocked, merely skeptical.

  “Look at Vanessa,” he said. “Or Hopkins or McKellen. Or Alan Rickman for chrissakes. Surely I have as much talent as those fakers. I’d make a lovely villain in a billion-dollar thriller. To die at the hands of Bruce Willis? The mere thought is enough to make me cream in my jeans.”

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  “Oh, Mr. Willis doesn’t get me hard. But the money does.”

  “That’s what I meant. You’re not serious about the money.”

  “Why not? What else is there to want from life?”

  “But you were just complaining about being bored with this show. A big-budget movie would be even worse.”

  “You think? Maybe. I contradict myself? Very well. I contradict myself.”

  He smiled, hiding his irritation for being called on his conflicted desires. He took a deep drag on his toothpick of bliss, wanting to climb back into a soft chambered cloud. When she said nothing, when she just sat there, watching, her intelligence began to worry him.

  He released his smoke. He took another gulp of wine. “I hope I didn’t sound envious and bitter about those other actors, my dear.”

  She shook her head.

  “You must understand. When I run down my peers, it’s not out of hatred or envy, though those emotions may be present. It takes a faker to know a faker. No, we hate one another chiefly to get a change from hating ourselves.”

  He blinked at his own words—had he really said that? He let out a loud bark of laughter.

  “Listen to me! What rubbish! What’s in this stuff anyway?” He stared at the joint. “Is this what they call designer grass?”

  Just then something beeped, like a signal from Jupiter. A second beep came from Jessie’s chair.

  Jessie dug into the cushion, fished out the cordless receiver, and passed it to Henry.

  “Ah.” He pressed the button. “Yes?”

  “Henry? You’re home? I thought I’d get only your machine. It’s Rufus. In L.A. How are you?”

  “Rufus! What a nice surprise. How good to hear your dulcet tones. And how’s life in the world of sunshine, hot tubs, and penis?”

  He was delighted to talk nonsense with a peer. His assistant’s curiosity and this potent grass had made him much too serious. He licked his thumb and forefinger and pinched out the ember.

  “What can I do for you, Roof?”

  “I just called to say hello.”

  “Uh-huh. And whose number do you want? What dish on whose houseboy or boyfriend?” His teasing was jovial, harmless, brotherly.

  “Hen? Are you partaking?”

  Henry laughed. “We know each other too well, don’t we?”

  They had met fifteen years ago, in a Vanya at the RSC where Henry was Dr. Astrov and Rufus was the nameless workman with two lines in Act Four. It was Rufus’s first baby step in the profession. They were lovers of a sort during the run, hygienic lust with a touch of playacted romance. Rufus was a tall, beautiful, lazy fellow, but he’d achieved surprising success in Hollywood playing “the best friend” in romantic comedies. Or what passed for romantic comedies in these sorry times.

  True to form, he did want a favor. He was coming to New York next month and needed to meet Christina Rizzo. “She’s your new agent, right?”

  “What? Where did you hear that?” Henry scowled. “All these damn little birds. Oh, all right. Yes. But it’s not final yet. And it’s not public. I haven’t even told Dolly yet that I’m leaving her for CAA.”

  “My lips are sealed. But what’s she like, this Rizzo?”

  “An absolute cunt. But she promises to be my cunt.”

  “Lucky you. A good cunt beats a limp dick any day. And right now I’m being handled at ICM by a truly limp dick.”

  Henry laughed, tossing his head back. And he saw Jessie sitting across from him. He’d forgotten she was here. “Just a sec, Roof.” He covered the receiver with his hand. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m being terribly rude, aren’t I?” But he was annoyed with her, especially since she’d heard him say cunt, a real no-no with Americans.

  “That’s okay. I should be getting home.” She smiled at him as she stood up, a watery, hurt smile. So why the hell hadn’t she left as soon as he started chatting on the phone?

  “That’s a dear,” he told her. “I’ll see you, what, Monday? Have a jolly weekend. Indulge yourself. Don’t give me a single thought.”

  8

  Sorry,” said Rufus. “I didn’t know you had company.”

  Henry waited until he heard the door clatter shut. “Not at all. Only my personal assistant.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “No, nothing like that. Female. Fiercely competent. But a bit of a nosey parker. Where were we?”

  “I should let you get back to your chemicals.” Rufus app
arently had something or someone that he wanted to get back to.

  “But you still enjoy life out there?” Henry asked. “You find the work satisfying?”

  “The life makes up for the work. But I never was a real artist. Like you, Henry. I really should be going. But I’ll see you next month. Take care of yourself.”

  “Yes. Of course. So good of you to call.” His own tone turned curt, even icy.

  “Good night, Hen.”

  “Good night.” He punched a button and tossed the receiver onto the cushions.

  A real artist, huh? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

  But he was alone. At last. It was good to be alone. Ever since he arrived at the theater tonight, he’d looked forward to this moment, when he could stop being for other people and be simply for himself.

  He gazed at the television. Silent men and women continued to come and go on the screen, as restful as an aquarium full of fish.

  He was suddenly sorry that Jessie had left. Not only did he want company, but he also feared he’d been a horse’s ass with her. He’d talked nothing but me-me-me-me. He should’ve asked how she was doing, about that boyfriend—who was he, what did he do, were they fucking? Not because he cared, but because it would give him something new to think about, someone beside himself. But Jessie might misunderstand and assume he did care about her, which was a dangerous thing to do to a crusher. No, being selfish was an act of kindness here.

  One of the joys about being onstage is that you think only about the moment at hand, then the next moment and the next. Unlike the rest of life, where the mind is constantly looking back, hunting down bad deeds and missed opportunities.

  Henry still had half a joint left, but he was afraid to light up again. He was stoned enough already. He decided to take a shower.

  The clothes came off his body like dry husks. The warm needles of water ran like a brush through his fur. His chest hair and pubic hair felt as soft as mink—or silver fox; they were full of gray. The terry cloth towels felt equally complex and wonderful as he dried himself. Then he put on his robe and his mind went back to work.

  Two months in New York and the novelty of a new life had already worn off. He was feeling restless again, discontent. The show was set, the reviews good. There was nothing for him to do now but ride out his contract and hope this would lead to a movie or even television work. In the meantime, he was bored out of his skull.

  What to do on a Friday night? All over New York, people were doing what the whole human race does on Friday nights: they were getting laid.

  The Gaiety Theatre was just down the street. There was also an intriguing bar called Stella’s. But shopping for a hustler required getting dressed, and Henry was exhausted, horny but indolent, especially after this lovely grass. His itch was the sexual equivalent of the munchies. Thank God for Ma Bell.

  He retrieved his cordless from the living room, sat on his bed, and took out the sheaf of bar magazines that he collected last month when Michael the costume designer showed him gay New York.

  So many ads to choose from: beefcake with choirboy faces, hard men with chiseled chins, potbellied ponies in leather. Henry finally chose and dialed a number. A gruff, tough, recorded voice came on.

  “Welcome to Paradise. You must be eighteen or older. You will be billed at your number. If you agree to the terms, press star now.”

  He pressed the button—he’d done this before—and heard a set of clicks like the tumblers of a combination lock falling into place. There was a moment of Muzak—it sounded like “Old Man River”—and another recorded voice clicked on: “Your request has been processed. Welcome to Paradise.”

  And his ear fell into a room of live voices:

  “Me so horny.” “Wall Street bottom looking for a top.” “Any spankers here tonight?” “Hey, Wall Street. I got ten inches of raging manmeat hungry for your hole.” “Where are you?” “Canarsie.”

  It was all actors out there, bad actors, the scripts stale, the roles flat and tired. A good actor can do wonders with third-rate material, but these guys were hopeless. There was one quiet, deadpan voice, however, that got Henry’s attention.

  “Anyone into words?” he said softly. “Just words. I’m staying in tonight. I’ll get us off with talk.”

  “Hey, Word Man,” said Henry in his butchest longshoreman voice. “You sound like just what I been looking for.”

  “All right. Why don’t you give me your phone number?”

  Henry gave it to him and hung up. Then he lay on his bed and waited, feeling a bit silly sprawled here in his bathrobe. The toenails of his left foot needed clipping. Finally the phone beeped.

  “Is that you?” he said.

  “It’s me.”

  “So what do I call you?”

  “Let’s not use names.”

  “No skin off my dick,” Henry muttered. “Whatcha into?”

  “We’re in church,” said the man. “It’s night. It’s right after evening mass.”

  “Okay,” said Henry uncertainly.

  “We’re with a half dozen women waiting to go to confession. We’re the only men there. We notice each other. We wonder if we’re both there to confess the same sin.”

  This was far more specific than anything Henry had yet to encounter in a chat line, but the guy was good. He knew how to set a scene. Catholic guilt was not on Henry’s menu, though Catholics could make for very hot one-night stands. The fellow had a tenor voice with a nicely New York nasal burr. Did people still go to confession?

  “All right,” said Henry. “I go into the confessional first. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m in there a long time. When I come out, I look at you.”

  “And I look back. And we smile.” He paused. “Then I get up to go in. I have a boner.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I can see it in your jeans.”

  “No. I’m not wearing jeans. We’re both in coats and ties. We’re dressed like working-class guys at a funeral. The kind of quiet guys who still live at home with their mothers.”

  The fellow certainly liked his details. “All right,” said Henry. “You go into the confessional with a hard-on. What do you confess?”

  “You don’t need to know that.”

  “All right.”

  “But when I come out, I see you’re still there, still on your knees praying. I don’t pray. Instead I step over to the side door, the one that opens into the cemetery. I step out, looking at you over my shoulder. I close the door.”

  “I get up and step across the aisle and cross myself.”

  “No. You forget to cross yourself.”

  “Okay. I open the door to the cemetery. Where are you?”

  “It’s night, remember. I’m waiting for you in the shadow, away from the streetlight, sitting against a tombstone.”

  The base for the cordless phone sat on the night table by the bed. The little plastic matchbook with caller ID was parked beside it. Jessie had ordered caller ID for him, saying it would protect Henry from telemarketers. He never used it, forgot he even had it. He remembered it now, however, and took a quick peek, wanting a clue about the man’s ethnicity, more meat for his imagination. The little calculator window read “Doyle, Caleb.”

  “You hesitate,” said the voice. “You’re nervous. But you’re still excited.”

  “Oh yeah.” This was Jessie’s brother? It couldn’t be. It was only the power of suggestion: Jessie was just here, she was still in his head. But he looked again and there it was: “Doyle, Caleb.” Doyle was a common name, but how many gay Caleb Doyles were there in Manhattan? And the guy knew how to set a scene, like a playwright. Henry hadn’t guessed that Jessie was Catholic, although the Irish name should have alerted him. Everyone in New York theater seemed to be either Catholic or Jewish.

  “But you come up to me,” the voice was saying. “You smell like Old Spice. And I grab your necktie and pull your face toward mine.”

  “Oh baby, yeah,” said Henry. “I’m stuffing my t
ongue into your mouth.”

  “Your warm tongue. Yeah, I feel it. And I can feel the cold stone through my trousers. And all around us the tombstones watch.”

  Henry hadn’t met Caleb Doyle. He may have read Venus in Furs but could remember nothing about it except that the lead role wasn’t right for him. He was sure he’d seen Doyle’s picture but couldn’t remember what he looked like. He imagined himself kissing the male twin of his assistant, a kinky but not unpleasant notion.

  “I’m undoing your belt,” said Henry. “I’m unzipping your fly. Oh my God. You’re huge,” he whispered.

  “Uh-uh. It’s no bigger than most. But the first sight of any hard cock is so exciting that it seems enormous.”

  Which was true, although Henry suspected most men would be put off by this kind of psychological realism.

  “I’m crouching down,” said Henry. “I’m pulling down your trousers and underdongers.”

  “My what?”

  “Skivvies.” Underdongers were Australian, not American.

  “Oh yeah. I can feel the cold stone on my bare ass. I can feel your breath on my cock.”

  “That’s not all you’re feeling, buddy. I can’t stop myself. I open my mouth, I got the head on my tongue. Then I take it in. All of it.”

  “Oh yeah. I can feel whiskers under your lower lip. God you know how to use your tongue.”

  “Hmmmm,” went Henry, then made a thicker, full-mouth sound—“Mmghgh”—trying for verisimilitude.

  “And your cock?” asked Doyle. “What’re you doing with it?”

  “I got it out. I’m working it.” Which he was. His robe was wide open. He lay flat on his back on a warm bed in a bright room even as he knelt in a damp cemetery with a mouthful of dick. The mind was an infinitely elastic place.

  “I’ve lifted my foot,” said the playwright. “I’m rubbing it against your cock and balls.”

  “What kind of shoes?” said Henry.

  “Loafers.”

  “No. They’re dress shoes. With the little holes? What’re they called? Wing tips. So I can feel the waxed laces against my testicles.”

  Doyle hesitated, and Henry thought he was going to argue, but then he said, “All right. Wing tips.”