Chapter 11

Beau Pre and New Orleans did have a lot in common, although they were in two different states. They were both Mississippi River ports about 150 miles apart with similar immigration patterns, historical architecture and laid-back attitudes, and Beau Pre was even two years older than New Orleans was. But it was also twenty-five times smaller. Although pleasantly surprised by toughing it out and eventually getting the job with the Times-Picayune, Leo was having a bit of trouble adjusting to the pace of life in the Crescent City, as it was often called because of the dramatic bend in the river where much of it was laid out.

He had been unable to find a place to live in the Quarter that he could afford, so instead he had settled for renting the upstairs of an older camelback in the Uptown Carrollton area. His landlords, Gabe and Susie Landry, were a short, plump retired couple who were very solicitous of him, particularly after they found out he was working for the Sunday magazine.

“We read the magazine every week,” Susie said. “We love it.”

“Who knows?” he had told them after signing the lease with an ingratiating smile. “Maybe I’ll be doing a story on y’all one day.”

“Us?” Susie said, blushing. “What kind of story would be about us? We’re just plain folks.”

“A story about landlords all over the city. Might be very interesting.”

Susie rubbed her hands together and squealed just like a little girl.

The logistics of getting from place to place in New Orleans had to be learned quickly. With all the stoplights and busy, one-way, divided boulevards featuring towering palms in the medians, veteran drivers knew all too well to add an extra twenty or thirty minutes to run any errands or just get to work on time. Leo had managed to get a good trade-in price for the Fairlane that his father had given him and which was on its last leg; and he was now driving around in a used 1967 red Volkswagen Beetle. He missed the extra room inside, of course, but he didn’t have to fill up nearly as often. And besides, red continued to be his favorite color for some things.

He liked his workplace environment. Spread out as a series of cubicles on the second floor of a sprawling building just off the interstate, there was an anonymity to it that encouraged efficiency while making time-wasting gossip difficult. That said, there were plenty of opportunities to make friends in the lunchroom which featured a cafeteria specializing in New Orleans favorites like red beans and rice (on Mondays), jambalaya, po-boys, muffaletas and bread pudding. Most of all, Leo and his Royal typewriter took to each other immediately, and he gave himself full credit for his decision to take typing his senior year in high school with all those girls who had fawned over him to no avail.

His editor was Arthur LeBlanc, a middle-aged man with a formidable mustache, gravelly voice and a shock of graying hair. He also smoked a pipe at his desk throughout the workday, causing the pleasant aroma of rum to hang in the air. There were two other Sunday staff members: a fast-talking, wise-cracking photographer named Chase Knowles with the energy of a puppy who looked like he might even be in high school but was pushing thirty; and another writer maybe a few years older, quite rangy, and well-dressed with a perfect patrician nose and deep-set, dark eyes, who had shortened his blockbuster name of Hugh Howard Henningham into Three-H.

“He thinks it’s cute, but I think it’s the worst nickname ever,” Chase told Leo over lunch in the cafeteria that first week on the job. “It reminds me of a hemorrhoid cream. Of course, when you really get to know him, you’ll get a whole new notion of what boring is. He’ll go on and on about his wife and daughter and all their social activities and their Mardi Gras Krewe until you want to excuse yourself to go outside and scream. Just a warning because I can guarantee you he’ll put in an appearance. Or two. Or three.”

It did not escape Leo that Chase was definitely the kind of guy that talked about people behind their back and that he therefore needed to be careful what he said around him. But despite Chase’s warning, Leo soon found himself trapped in the lunchroom a day later when Three-H sidled up to him with his tray and said, “Mind if I sit with you? I’d like to make you feel welcome. It’s my specialty.”

“Of course, not,” Leo said, even though he wanted to be by himself on that particular occasion.

Chase had not exaggerated on the subject of their co-worker, however, as the man launched into what amounted to an unsolicited and convoluted family history—both his and his wife’s in between bites of his shrimp po-boy. “Lydia is a Duval, and I am a Henningham,” he was saying at one point. “Our parents had always wanted us to get together, you see. So, we ended up pleasing them and saying our ‘I do’s.’ It was the social event of the season, if I do say so myself.”

Leo retained little of the litany that Three-H trotted out as they ate, making the necessary non-committal grunts and nods to appear engaged. He trusted that once he had been given the full Three-H family treatment, he would be spared in the future, despite what Chase had said. If this was the worst he had to endure on the job, Leo figured he was home-free.

Then came his first assignment. He was paired with Chase to do a story on the Greater New Orleans Tourist and Convention Commission, headquartered in the heart of the Quarter and whose primary mission was to bring conventions to the city throughout the year. He was delighted to discover that Chase’s suggestions for shots exuded professionalism, and the questions that he himself had prepared to ask people created some memorable quotes. When all the interviews were done and photographs taken from all angles, Leo realized with a great deal of satisfaction that he could do the job he’d been hired to perform.

When he turned in the copy, Arthur LeBlanc said, “This is good stuff, Leo. I like the way you profiled the head honcho as the go-getter he is. People here think of tourism as out-of-towners drinking, eating, and gawking at strippers in the Quarter, but the real money is in filling up our hotels with conventioneers. After all, Mardi Gras doesn’t go on all year.”

Nonetheless, it took Leo two weeks to realize that something important was missing in his new life, and it wasn’t Greg who continued to exchange newsy letters with him. What had temporarily vanished was his music, his show tunes, his playing and singing at the piano. He missed it terribly. The upright his parents had bought for him was back in Beau Pre in the living room collecting dust. Neither of them had ever learned to play.

But rather than ask them to go to the trouble and expense to ship it to him, he set aside something from his first paycheck, drove to Werlein’s on Canal Street and put a down payment on a mahogany spinet that he could call his very own. Soon, he was having his own impromptu recitals, and he even invited the Landrys up once to hear him sing selections from the Nat King Cole songbook he had also treated himself to. They applauded vigorously after he’d rendered “Blue Gardenia”, “Teach Me Tonight”, and “That Sunday, That Summer” to perfection.

“You ought to be on the TV with the way you sing,” Susie Landry told him, giving him a playful wink. “Maybe you oughta go out to Hollywood. They don’t have enough redheads out there.”

Her comment did resonate with him somewhat. He had, after all, taken music courses galore and had continued to act and sing in plays at Sewanee. But for the time being, he had committed to the written word and his ability to communicate with others; not to mention that he hadn’t even begun to explore all that New Orleans offered.

For instance, his parents had given him a list of their favorite restaurants that they’d raved about all these years that he must try for himself. Two—Galatoire’s and Arnaud’s—were in the Quarter, while the third, Commander’s Palace, was in the Garden District on the other side of downtown. After parking his car in a nearby garage, he was on his way to his first visit to Galatoire’s for lunch. He was going to try the Trout Marguery his mother said she always ordered, and then he saw a sign on the door of one of the two-story, brick and lacework buildings that he passed.

NEW ORLEANS GAY RESOURCES COALITION, it read. There was a phone number beneath it.

He made a mental note to enter that door on another visit after memorizing the number. That was the thing he had also noticed lately. The word homosexual had apparently fallen out of favor and been replaced by gay to describe men and women who were attracted to members of their own sex. Not that he wasn’t familiar with the term lesbian or that he had never heard the word gay used before. But more often than not, he had grown up with queer and fag and mostly homo, which Coy Warren had thrown out there to defend his sister’s honor. Perhaps things were changing just a bit; but at any rate, he needed to investigate and discover what these ‘gay resources’ were, and if they might help him in some way.

A few days later after calling to determine the organization’s hours and set up an appointment, Leo climbed the steep stairs behind the New Orleans Gay Resources Coalition door and briefly caught his breath on the second-floor landing. There was no sign of a receptionist to greet him, but another door with a transom to his right had a sign in bold block lettering which read KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING. Immediately after he did so, a deep voice from within said “Come in.”

Leo entered but made no effort to advance at first. There before him, behind a large desk covered with all sorts of paraphernalia in a small, cluttered room with a couple of uncomfortable-looking chairs, sat Henry the Eighth. Or at least Leo’s recollection of how that royal historical figure had been depicted for centuries. The man’s plump face was framed by ox-blood red scalp and beard hair, and when he stood up, it was very obvious from his girth that he enjoyed eating as much as that notorious ruler had.

“I’m Terrence Dennery. You must be Leo,” he said, as the two men shook hands. “You’re right on time. Please, have a seat. We’re always glad to welcome newcomers to our organization. As you’ve gathered by the lack of a receptionist, our staff is lean, unlike myself.”

Always a fan of self-deprecating humor, Leo cracked a smile and said, “As I said over the phone, I can’t wait to hear about all the services you provide and if I can’t fit in somewhere.”

Terrence immediately pointed to the simple, black, rotary phone on his desk. “That’s our main service right there—our gay helpline. If it rings while we’re here together chatting, I’ll have to excuse myself and take it, although more of our calls tend to happen during the evening hours than at any other time. We man it twenty-four and seven for those who need counseling, to provide someone who will just listen to them, and give recommendations for clinics and health services and information on the dates and times of our bi-weekly social meetings. Some of our members including myself take turns hosting in their homes and apartments because we don’t have the space here, as you can see. The meetings give people a chance to get to know each other, discuss issues and compare notes, and even form lasting friendships, although we don’t consider ourselves a dating service. We discourage people from trying to use us that way. Eventually, we hope to attract some high-profile speakers and celebrities to address us. I’ll end my spiel by saying that as a private organization, we exist on contributions from our members. I inherited some money from my parents, enough to get the Coalition started and keep it running for a while.” He paused, giving Leo a hopeful glance. “Contributions are not a requirement to join, of course, and there are no dues. We realize that some who come to us aren’t exactly swimming in money.”

“I’m doing okay for a first job,” Leo said and then described his work at the paper.

Terrence seemed impressed. “Ah, the magazine. I read it all the time, and I think they dig beneath the surface and reveal what New Orleans is really about. All the layers and cliques. Maybe you could suggest an article on this organization to your editor some time.”

“I can certainly keep that in mind.” Then Leo zeroed in on his goal. “Do you have any shift openings for the helpline? Mine would have to be evenings because of my job hours.”

Terrence looked pleased and handed over a small piece of paper he’d placed in his shirt pocket. “I’ve written down two possibilities for you—one on Wednesday evening and one on Sunday evening. I could use the relief for either one, as I end up taking up the slack when we don’t have enough volunteers. I wish it were otherwise, but there’s not a line forming out on the sidewalk to join us. There are still too many people living in too many closets, and it might surprise you who some of them are at all levels of society. If it were easy to be gay, an organization like ours wouldn’t even be necessary.”

Leo didn’t even have to think about it. “I know all about the closet. I’ll take Wednesday then. I have two days off at the paper, and Wednesday is one of them.”

The phone rang, and Terrence said, “Perfect timing. You can listen and watch me in action.”

Terrence gathered himself and picked up the receiver on the third ring. “New Orleans Gay Resources Coalition. How can I help you?”

There was a prolonged period of silence during which Terrence listened intently while rolling his eyes.

“Is that it? Are you through?” he finally said to the caller. After a brief pause, he hung up and cocked his head smartly. “You might think I staged that one for your benefit, but the truth is, you’ll get your share of crazies calling up. The approved procedure is not to engage them for the most part, as you observed. If it gets too rough, you can either hang up or tell them that the call is being recorded in case they have any intention of calling back. That almost always works.”

“What did whoever that was say?”

Terrence filled his ample chest with air and cleared his throat. “It was a man. Most of our prank callers are men. I suspect teenage boys whose voices have just dropped when you come right down to it. So, paraphrasing here from that call, ‘Is this Queers, Incorporated? How much will you charge to suck it for me? Not that I’d spend good money on you. Or do you do it for free? I bet you’ll do it for free, won’t you, you sick bastards?’”

“Wow!”

“Oh, that was relatively mild compared to some,” Terrence added. “Expect your share of prank calls with foul language. But don’t get distracted by them. For every one of them, there’ll be one from someone in need of genuine help. It’s those people we’re trying to reach. We’re a somewhat new group, so we’re still trying to get the word out.”

“Sign me up,” Leo said, feeling not the least bit intimidated by what had just happened.

“Done.” Then Terrence leaned forward, reaching into his shirt pocket again and handing over another slip of paper. “Our next social gathering will be at my apartment on Metairie Road a week from now at 8 p.m. Here’s the address with some directions and my phone number.”

Leo glanced at it and said, “Should I bring anything?”

“Just yourself, unless you’re involved with someone. They’re welcome, too. Otherwise, I provide the refreshments, and the rest is up to you. It’ll be well worth your while.”

“This is very exciting. To be able to meet people like myself openly without sneaking around. Straight people take that openness for granted. If they only knew.”

Terrence’s tone grew more solemn. “A word of caution, though. The Coalition isn’t a cure-all for navigating the gay subculture. Mr. Right may not come along. For instance, I still don’t have a partner, and I’ve been trying for years. It’s more difficult for guys who are overweight like me. Believe me, I’ve tried to slim down, but I just can’t seem to get over the hump. Plus, I’m over the dreaded thirty. There’s a bit of relentless youth worship going on out there that can’t be denied.” Terrence sighed but managed a smile at the same time. “Heigh, ho. What else is new?”

“You got that right,” Leo said, standing up to shake hands. At the door, he turned and added, “By the way, where do you get your hair cut? It looks great, and I’ve been looking for something more than a traditional barber since I’ve gone with longer hair.”

“Look up Long May She Wave in the Yellow Pages,” Terrence said. “Great little unisex salon. The owner is Mara Lehmann, and she does my hair. She’s also a member of the Coalition and what they call these days a lipstick lesbian. She never leaves the house without looking like a fashion model. It’s just her thing. Tell her I sent you, and she’ll take good care of you. You’ll never want anyone else to touch a strand after one appointment with her.”

The one thing Leo had not shared with Arthur LeBlanc or his other co-workers was information on his private life. During his final job interview, he had not been asked in person if he was married or single, so he saw no reason to delve into it. He considered that checking the single box for tax withholding purposes on his application was sufficient. Despite the fact that he had come out to his parents, he did not yet feel comfortable enough to lead with the information in daily life. He was, in fact, technically still a virgin, his physical needs being taken care of by certain nocturnal episodes common to pubescent boys all the way up to grown men. For the time being, he chose to keep his involvement with the Coalition submerged; at least until he got to know everyone a whole lot better. After all, he did not need or want to know about the private lives of his editor, Chase, or Three-H, even if the latter kept volunteering family tidbits to anyone in the workplace he could corner. It seemed a compulsion with him, and what was worse, he had a tendency to repeat the same things over and over. The man definitely needed new material or at least to tone down the old.

Leo did think it was somewhat curious that Chase never mentioned a girlfriend or a wife, since he was talkative about almost everything else. Not that he was interested in Chase as anything more than a friend and co-hort. But having been in the closet himself for so long growing up, he couldn’t help but wonder if that might be going on with Chase. It wasn’t exactly radar, or even gaydar as some called it, but Leo sensed something.

Behind the scenes, Leo became used to his Wednesday shifts on the helpline. The profanity didn’t phase him, and he would write down PRANK in the log he was required to keep instead of wasting his time with details like—caller wanted to know if we gave queer lessons and how much they cost; or caller wanted to say that we needed to find Jesus unless we wanted to go to Hell and burn there for all eternity. The so-called theological callers sometimes outnumbered the cussers and jokesters, which was interesting in and of itself. He concluded that they all had too much time on their hands and needed to get lives.

It wasn’t much easier, however, for him to connect with the occasional person who obviously had nowhere else to turn and desperately needed a ray of hope. Particularly if that person was hanging by a thread. It was a tough job, and it took him a while to adjust to every aspect of it.

For instance, there was his first legit call from a young man who identified himself as a junior in high school but would not give his name. Of course, Terrence had made it clear that no one was ever required to volunteer a name if they chose not to.

“I’m on the track team, and I have this crush on a teammate,” he began. “He doesn’t know. Nobody knows. I’m sure I’d be kicked off the team if anyone found out. My parents don’t know. They’re so proud of me for running track in the first place, especially my dad. I mean, I was too small to play football, but as soon as I got on the track team, his whole attitude toward me changed. So I don’t think he’d be so proud of me if he knew I was a homo.”

“You don’t have to use that word, you know,” Leo told him. “It’s a term of contempt.”

“But that’s what they’d call me. I hear the term used all the time at school in the locker room. What I want to do is quit the team so I won’t have to be around Will anymore…” Then the boy panicked. “Oh, no, I said his name…”

Hang-up. Dial tone.

There was too much of that, but every once in a while, someone would stay on long enough to get an address or phone number for the help they needed. Leo decided that was enough for him for the time being. He knew very well that things would not change overnight.