12

AFTER YACHATS AND WALDPORT, Newport seemed a town of some size. The bar was on the main east-west drag, flanked by a kite store and a Japanese restaurant, both well lighted and colorful. John stopped and studied the kites through the window.

“I should come back here when it’s open and buy one for Katy.”

“Good idea. Now, let’s drink.”

Oliver led the way into the excessively nautical bar. Rigging, anchors, and bells were all over. The piano on the small stage was adorned with a figurehead, the torso and head of a man.

Seeing that they had wandered into a room of homosexuals, Oliver said, “This place is full of semen.” He laughed and became aware of John’s stillness. “Does this place bother you?”

“No,” John said. “Just caught off guard. I’m from Staunton, Virginia; we don’t have places like this.”

“You just don’t know about them. I didn’t know about this place.” Oliver looked around. “You want to find another bar?”

John shook his head and pointed to an empty booth. They sat and ordered drinks from the waiter.

“What do you make of all this?” John asked.

“All what, exactly?”

“The affectation, all this show?”

Oliver shrugged. He leaned back and looked at his friend’s face. “What’s eating you?”

“I saw Ruth Spencer today.”

“So?”

“I mean, I saw Ruth Spencer.”

“I see. Well, good for you, you lucky dog. I hate your guts.”

The drinks came and Oliver told the waiter that the second round should already be on the way.

“So, of course, you’re depressed,” Oliver said mockingly. “Just relax. I’ll change the subject: How’s Lisa?”

“Fine.”

“That’s it? Fine? What’s wrong with you? Aren’t you happy about the forthcoming Livesey?”

“I am, but sometimes I think I’m the only one. I don’t understand.”

Oliver lifted his glass. “Then stop trying. Let it go.”

John sipped his bourbon and looked about. Warm feelings for Ruth swept over him and he found himself smiling, smiling while facing a red-headed boy at the bar. The smile that came back was disconcerting and dirty, he thought. Instead of looking away, he let his smile melt into a flat line and he stared the young man back into his imagination.

“You’re a fast worker,” Oliver said.

John sat up straight, not knowing what he meant, afraid of what he thought the meaning to be.

“Ruth Spencer,” Oliver said to the air, as if saying it would give him some idea of the smoothness and softness of her flesh.

“I’d rather not think of myself as a worker in this matter.”

“There are certain things we must face up to. You’ve had your eyes set on her ever since the restaurant. And you went after her. Don’t spoil it by wimping out into a puddle of misgivings about yourself. At least, don’t ruin it for me. I’m living vicariously through you. I hate your guts.”

John grunted.

“Is that all you can say?”

“You’re saying enough for the two of us and making little enough sense for three.”

“Are we having an argument?” Oliver asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I think you have no choice but to marry her. Now that you’ve validated her ticket and ended her life as she has known it.”

John just squinted at him.

A breath through a microphone turned attention to the stage and the baroque piano. A chubby blond man was seated at the instrument, adjusting the microphone. He smiled at the audience and pretended to take the mike into his mouth. The patrons howled and shouted, “Yea, Denny! Yea, Denny!” Denny gave a signal and the lights were turned on him.

Oliver caught a passing waiter and ordered two more rounds. He watched the man walk away. “Many women should have his butt.”

“What do you think of this guy?” John asked, indicating Denny with a nod.

Oliver didn’t answer.

Denny’s routine began. He was a comedian, telling fag jokes and playing short joke songs. At one point, he put on a pair of costume glasses with an attached rubber penis for a nose. The crowd went wild, stomping, chanting, “Den—ny! Den—ny!” whenever he paused.

John leaned forward and said to Oliver, “I feel like an anthropologist.”

“I feel put upon,” said Oliver.

John attended to some strange inebriated glow he thought he saw in Oliver’s eyes.

There was a man with a white belt and white shoes at a table just a few feet from them. He had a white monkey puppet with Velero hands wrapped around him. He was the loudest of all and Oliver was beginning to react to him. The man worked the puppet’s mouth to his words, “Den—ny is great!” John felt hollow and fearful as he watched Oliver go through contortions to adjust himself in his seat. “Den—ny is the best!” the man said.

Oliver got up and yelled at the man. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to put the primate down.” Then, as if an afterthought, he called the man a sissy.

A hush came over the room and John did the only thing he could think to do; he stood with his friend. He became more afraid when he looked into Oliver’s terrified eyes. A large man who was sitting at the table with the monkey man rose. The man’s size and the alcohol made John angry and belligerent—later he would admit to being stupid and suicidal as well.

John raised his fists and said, “Come on, pretty boy. Let’s see if you can take it in the face the way you take it in the butt.”

There was an excruciating silence. The large homosexual moved forward. Oliver grabbed a pitcher of beer from a nearby table and threw it at the big man, who caught it near his face and pushed it to the floor with a crash. John and Oliver darted past bodies, knocking over one man, and out onto the street. They stopped at the van and watched the door of the bar, but no one gave chase.

“A couple of old fools,” John said, leaning against the side panel.

“I forgot to leave a tip,” Oliver said.

“That’s tacky.”

“That was actually sort of fun,” Oliver said.

“You’re sick.” John pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “You okay to drive?”

“I don’t know. Are you clear-headed? Maybe you should drive.”

“Yeah, I’m all right.”

They got in and John sat still behind the wheel.

“What is it?” asked Oliver.

“Nothing.” John turned the key.

John stopped the van in Waldport for gas and a breather. Oliver was asleep, his head against the passenger-side window.

He drove on and awoke Oliver at his house. “Oliver.” He shook him. “Oliver, come on and go inside.”

Oliver focused on him and tried to gather himself together. “I’ll drive you home.”

“No, I’ll just walk.”

“Take the van.”

“No, I feel like walking.”

“You’re the boss.”

John waved and left Oliver at his door. Walking home, he anxiously anticipated his coming morning discomfort, but for the present he was light and free. The night was a little cool and he shivered against it, but he refused to give in to anything except these good feelings.