Sitting at his desk in the small, cramped office he shared with one other teaching assistant, Mike looked up from grading a stack of composition papers. A blond young man from his Comp 101 class stood in the doorway.
“Come in,” he said, smiling. “Come in.”
The young man entered and sat down in a chair at the end of the desk. Setting it at his feet, he unburdened himself of a book satchel slung purse-like over his shoulder, and smiled hopefully.
“You’re Mister…” Mike recognized him from one of his three comp classes but did not recall his name.
“Terry Blackman.”
“That’s right. Forgive me…I haven’t got everyone’s name straight yet. But what’s up?”
“It’s about the paper you assigned us…I need more time.”
He listened to the standard tale of woe he had heard so often from students whose facility with the spoken word far exceeded their facility with the written word. In his own college composition courses, he himself had excelled at the task of stringing words together in a coherent, progressive fashion, only to arrive at a logical conclusion. For whatever reason—advanced writing classes in high school or simple, innate ability—he had never had the same problems so many students nowadays seemed to have. His own rise among the ranks of eager young men clambering to join an exalted brotherhood of English professionals had been swift. His talent having been duly recognized by a procession of mentoring father figures, he had moved along easily from lower division courses into those at the upper level. So successful had he been that, at the beginning of his junior year, he was very soon taking on extracurricular assignments from professionals who had him writing some of their own papers. In return for relieving them from the onus of researching and writing about whatever subject matter they might want to expound on and have published, he quickly wound up on a well-greased track to becoming eligible for a master’s program and, hence, in line for one of the few plum teaching assistant jobs available. The next step, of course, was to follow the same proven method for getting into a doctoral program.
“What seems to be the problem?”
The blond young man hesitated, then blurted out, “I just need more time. I mean, with all the other things I have to squeeze into my schedule, I really feel sort of overwhelmed. I’m taking a full load plus two, and it’s taking almost all the time I have.”
“Maybe you should drop something…?”
“I’m afraid I might have to.”
“Have you turned in any of your assignments yet?”
“The first two. But this one’s longer…”
“How long is it?”
“You told us in class, no less than eight pages.”
“Really? Well…have you done anything at all?”
The young man withdrew several handwritten pages from his manila folder and handed them to Mike, who scanned through them quickly.
“It looks like you’ve made some progress. But maybe you should put it aside for now and come back to it later. You can hand it in as a late assignment if you like. If I feel you’ve done a good job, I won’t penalize you. Okay?”
“That’d be great!”
“And if you need any help in doing it, just let me know. You can just come by my office, and I’d be glad to help.”
The young man stood up.
“I really do appreciate that,” he said. “That’s awfully nice of you.”
“No problem. Any time.”
After the young man left, Mike bundled up the papers he had been grading moments before and stuffed them into a leather briefcase. He could take them home and finish them up later that evening. In the meantime…
§ § § § § §
Tony had just renewed his contract with the owner of The Ritzy Club. Located two blocks off lower Burnside, next to a storefront Gospel mission for down-n-outers on one side and an adult arcade on the other, it had been around for years as one of those establishments that periodically undergo a personality change. Originally, it had functioned during the sixties as a smoky after-hours spot for Portland’s jazz aficionados. Then, in keeping with a West Coast trend, it had transformed itself into a “wiggle and jiggle” joint, complete with bare-naked young women in high heels performing all manner of sexual gyrations for liquored-up young men willing to pay a hefty cover charge as well as jacked-up prices for drinks. As the novelty of the trend gradually diminished, a gay entrepreneur turned it into a low-profile eating and drinking emporium for a gay community not yet sufficiently comfortable with being openly gay. The darkly lit atmosphere, apron-clad, waist-coated waiters, and piano bar gave it the feel of a cozy but classy haven for gay couples just wanting to be themselves together in public. Its latest makeover had been brought about by an ex-Arthur Murray ballroom dancer who had set out to revive what he considered a moribund art form—burlesque.
By the time Mike arrived, the seven o’clock show had finished a few minutes before, and the male strippers had all trotted off for an extended smoke break and a breath of fresh air in the back alley. The lights on the small stage had dimmed, and a tuxedo-ed piano player sat at a Steinway baby grand in another part of the candlelit room, moodily gliding through a rendition of Cole Porter’s “My Heart Belongs To Daddy.”
Mike ordered a double Scotch; sipping it, he sat in a booth at the back of the room and waited for the next show to start.
Exactly fifteen minutes into the wait, the footlights came on and the stage lit up. The incessant hum and babble of conversation faded to a hushed silence, and all heads turned expectantly in the same direction. As the caparisoned wait staff removed themselves discreetly to the back of the room or stepped outside for a quick smoke, the atonal pitch and squeal of bamboo reed pipes, Moroccan oboes, tambourines, hand castanets, and a variety of Oriental percussion instruments suddenly burst into a pulsating rhythm from an overhead sound system. From one corner of the stage, wearing red, silken pantaloons embroidered with gold sequins and cinched tightly and provocatively at the waist, halfway between his belly button and his pubic region, Tony rumbaed into view.
Undulating gracefully across the polished wooden floor on his bare feet, his arms and wrists jangled with silver and gold bracelets, and the long, ebony tresses of his wig swaying back and forth like the thin filaments of underwater sea creatures, he wiggled his hips and sashayed his shoulders with exquisite sensuality. Lips parted and eyes half-closed, he gazed past the footlights and out into the darkened room with an expression of languorous bliss, as though having transported himself into a paradisiacal realm.
As the music spun out into a kind of roisterous, maddening swirl, he allowed himself to be drawn further and further into it. The clang and blare of exotic instruments all combined in an exuberant, seemingly improvisational deliverance of an improbably melodious sound, to which he responded with a progression of movements involving whirling himself about, letting his arms and hands flow back and forth in arabesques of voluptuous spontaneity. Losing himself in a sort of rapturous frenzy, he danced round and round and round, until, as though with a jolt, the music stopped.
Blinking, he stopped as well.
It was over.
His naked torso gleaming with sweat, he looked out at the audience.
The audience cheered, whistled, clapped, and shouted.
Removing his wig, he smiled and bowed.
The audience continued its ovation.
He bowed again, then, blowing kisses, left the stage.
Twenty-five minutes later, he joined Mike in the booth they usually reserved for themselves and had the waiter bring him two double whiskey sodas. He had changed into street clothes: pearl-gray slacks and a blue blazer over an open-collar white shirt. As he left the dressing room area and entered the restaurant proper, he had stopped to say hello to a number of patrons, all of whom had proffered congratulatory comments and well wishes. As he walked over to his table, a few had even reached out to squeeze his hand or simply to touch him on the shoulder.
“Cock of the walk this evening, huh?” Mike said with a touch of envy.
Tony sipped from one of the two whiskey sodas the waiter had set on cocktail napkins in front of him.
“It’s actually quite exhausting,” he said. “I absolutely have to lose some weight.”
“Nonsense. Your baby fat becomes you. It’s part of what makes you attractive. You look like a delicious little butterball.”
“You’re so encouraging. You oughta become a diet consultant.”
Mike leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
“Be thankful people like you just as you are.”
“I’m ever so thankful. But I still think I could lose a few pounds.”
“Try drinking less.”
“Oh, that would never work. But I might give up creamed asparagus.”
“Do you eat creamed asparagus?”
“No.”
“Well, then, there you go—that oughta be worth ten pounds all by itself.”
“I feel so much better already. Aren’t resolutions wonderful?”
Over the next hour, several friends and acquaintances stopped by the booth to exchange pleasantries, bits of gossip, or just to say hello. A female impersonator came on stage and sang a Judy Garland number, did a passable rendition of a Julie London melody, and moved on to “Just Walkin’ In The Rain,” as sung by Johnny Ray. His act was followed by a set of blond, muscular male strippers, both wearing cowboy outfits, complete with boots, tight jeans, leather chaps, fancy shirts, and hats. As each item of clothing vanished into the wings, an appreciative audience bombarded them with bills of different denominations; at the end of the routine, they both hurried offstage to count their take.
“They’ll go home happy tonight, won’t they?” Mike observed.
“They go home happy every night. And they’ve each got a sugar daddy that meets them backstage afterwards.”
“Really?”
“One’s a surgeon who drives a Corvette, and the other owns a big ranch in eastern Oregon. He lives here in town, and has somebody manage it for him.”
“Speaking of ranches, Tony, have you made up your mind about Montana?”
“Oh, do I really have to?”
“Well, no, but Heidi would like you to.”
“Oh, poo on her. I just don’t know anymore…”
“I know. I think everyone took Whit’s death quite badly. It was such a jolt.”
“It was more than that. As far as I’m concerned, it was a total game-changer. Out with the old and in with the new, is what I say.”
Tony had started on his second whiskey and soda. Setting the glass on the table, he sighed heavily.
“Look, here, Mike,” he said, “I got into this because you told me it would advance my photography career. But all I’ve seen so far is a couple of pictures on the Internet. And those don’t even have my name on them. They’re just attributed to the group’s photographer; I’m anonymous. Do you know how it feels to be anonymous? Do you know how it feels to have something you’re so very good at go unrecognized? At this rate, I could live into old age and never have made my mark except as an exotic dancer, which is much too fleeting. Besides, how do I put together a portfolio if I’m forced to keep myself under wraps?”
“You yourself told her not to use your name, Tony. You told her it would be too risky.”
“I know. But the point is, it doesn’t really do me any good. I need something to show people, something that I can brag about and claim as my own. Don’t you see?”
“Of course I do. But why don’t you just use a pseudonym? Like Liberace? Or Cher? It’s not all that uncommon, you know. And you could even consider it a nom de guerre…”
“Ooo, I like that. Isn’t that what Che did?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, we’ll have to think of something, won’t we?”
“Something romantic…exciting…exotic…”
“We’ll run it by Heidi.”
“Does that mean you will? Shall I tell her yes?”
“I suppose. After all, we all know how much it means to her. And it is for a good cause, isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then…”