Gulliver Takes Five, page 11
Stanford returns to the table and puts his hand on Leon’s shoulder. Leon looks up mid-laugh, meets Stanford’s eyes, and follows him outside. Stanford’s phone is already out before they make it to the street.
“Enough food there, Marty?”
It’s Grant, grinning from ear to ear. His lips and tongue are a toxic green from however many Wicked-flavored drinks he has downed already.
“I’m a growing boy,” I toss back coldly. “We can’t all eat young talent for breakfast.”
“Whoa, watch the attitude there, scout. Don’t want to come off like a diva who can’t handle losing out on a part. You’ll land something soon, I’m sure!”
“Yes. I will,” I say, watching the entrance to the restaurant. Through the glass, I see Leon looking at Stanford’s phone. He recoils, head shooting back toward the doors like Stanford just revealed a rotting corpse under a blanket. Then he leans in, probably confirming that the clothing on the chair matches what’s on his beloved Boq.
Confirmed, Leon pulls out his phone and storms to the other side of the sidewalk, his free hand waving in the air.
“Anyway,” Grant prattles on, “I’m still trying to decide what to sing tonight. I was feeling ‘Lost in the Wilderness,’ but even Hunter Foster and Stephen Schwartz know that one is played out by now.”
I reply with a blink and a smile.
There’s a special place in hell for dickheads like Grant Majors, a place where they perform nothing but Hot Feet, Ring of Fire, and Carrie: The Musical.
I laugh at Grant’s bad joke, put my lips close to his ear. “Have you ever tried out for Hair?”
Grant’s laughter stops. “No. Why?”
I set my mountain of food on the table and wrap my arms around him, pulling his head close to mine so I can whisper-sing in his ear: “Good morning starshine. The earth says hello...”
He cranks his face toward me, eyes bulging. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You twinkle above us. We twinkle below...”
“What the fuck? Have you lost your mind?”
Maybe a more experienced actor could pretend like he didn’t know what I’m referring to. But not this one.
I stop singing. “Oh. Never mind. Just a tune I couldn’t get out of my head. Now don’t you have to warm up for your number? Or—well, you’ve already hit a lot of high notes this evening. I’m sure your vocal chords got all the workout they need. Sir.”
Grant gives me a frigid half smile. He sets his plate down, scans the room, eyes pausing on every person who’s looking down at their cell phones (even Sutton is checking hers). Are they viewing his latest starring role? Probably not. But if not now, they soon will.
Grant lets go of me, says something I can’t make out, walks across the restaurant and out to the street. Neither Leon nor Stanford tries to stop him as he passes them on the sidewalk.
A minute later, a text message hits my phone. It’s from Stanford: “You just couldn’t resist, could you?”
“Sorry!” I text back, adding a smiley with its tongue hanging out.
“I’ll bb in a few. Talkin with Leon. PS: he wants you back in the office tomorrow for another audition.”
“HE DOES?”
“Congrats, Goose. You’re headed to Oz.”
I abandon my mountain of food for the bar with an Ozian spring to my step. In my head, the bridge in “The Wizard and I” begins to play.
“Unlimited. My future is unlimited. And I just had a vision almost like a prophecy...”
You and me both, Elphy.
Stanford catches me just as two Boq and punches make it out of the shaker.
“What happened to Grey Goose and cran?”
I shrug. “Grey suddenly seemed so drab. A little too Kansas for this boy from Oz.”
“Ah. Don’t go getting too big a head now, whiz kid.” Stanford picks up his green concoction. “I suppose I’ll let you do the honors?”
“Is it too crass to say, ‘Ding dong! The witch is dead’?”
“No,” Stanford says. Our drinks meet. “It is a little cheesy, though.” We sip, and savor, in silence.
When we come back up for air, our lips are green. “You know, that video could have probably gone unnoticed, or at least unattached to Grant. The quality was terrible.”
I wince. “It’s very possible. Or it could have been discovered. There’s no telling.” I take another sip so I don’t have to look at him, then ask, “Do you hate me?”
“Nah. I’d have done the same. Probably be passing it around the party by now. Little bastard shouldn’t have talked shit about my office.”
I giggle. “So you think he’s done for?”
Stanford takes a long, thoughtful drink. “For now, maybe. Depends. I mean, if Leon and his associates keep this amongst themselves, there’s still a possibility the world at large will never find out why he lost the role. And that video will surely be pulled down in a few hours. Unless someone found a way to save it, it may end up disappearing forever.”
“Good thing no one in the Broadway world likes juicy gossip, then, huh?”
Stanford raises his eyebrows and sighs at me. “Uh-huh. Hey, by the way, I think this should be your last one of these drinks tonight.”
“Why? Too early to celebrate?”
“No.” Stanford smiles. “But it seems our evening’s entertainment has mysteriously deserted us. Leon needs someone to fill in, and it turns out he’s got a hankering to hear ‘Lost in the Wilderness.’”
“Are you kidding me?”
“You’re going on in five, Goose. Better wipe that green off your lip.”
I’ve been given zero prep time, but I’ve sung enough today to be in a good place. Five minutes pass like they’re seconds, and then Leon is onstage introducing me as a brand-new shining star about to take Broadway by storm. The fact that this message is delivered by the casting director of the most successful show on Broadway and on tour around the world cannot be downplayed. Leon also tips off the actors and press that they just might catch me next month in Wicked in Boston.
My God.
I could scream. I could dance where I’m standing. I could hug Leon like he’s the father I never had. But that’s not what I’m here to do.
I’m here to perform.
I approach the microphone to hundreds and hundreds of clapping hands. My heroes, my idols, my crushes, all applauding me, and I haven’t even opened my mouth. I want to point them out one by one and tell them each and every song of theirs I have memorized. How every single one of them is the reason I worked day and night to get here. Their successes have fueled me to break through the past two months of failure, the years of challenges and setbacks. I want to scream, I love you! to Sutton. Thank her brother for the song I am about to sing. But spoken words would never do my appreciation justice. In my stomach, nerves and anxiety step into the wings, replaced by an ecstatic sensation of confidence. Not just about what I’m preparing to do, but also the certainty that I’m on the verge of something really, really big.
There’s so much I want to think, so much I want to feel. Remorse, maybe, for what I said to Chase. Guilt, for my part in obliterating Grant Majors’s career. Grief, for the relationship I now know I will never have with Gulliver, since the Gulliver I loved doesn’t exist.
Also, confusion. Complete and total confusion at the surreal way this all lined up tonight.
And joy, of course.
Satisfaction that years of devotion to singing are finally, here and now, paying off. When I awoke today, I was just a cow in the herd. I worshipped Grant Majors and, deep down, secretly hoped Gulliver would come back and prove he was the one. Or maybe that Chase would turn out to be that one. Now I’m going on tour and leaving these boys behind me. I know now, that’s exactly how it’s meant to be.
But these are not thoughts I can think now; they are thoughts I’ll think later. Because when I sing, I don’t think or feel. All earthly matters melt away. I know they’ll return when I’m done. But for now? I escape.
There’s only one place to go from here. I snap my fingers to give the pianist the rhythm, throw a quick wink at Stanford, and toss Leon a warm smile. The first notes of my song begin, and I ride each one up, up, up as I exit my body one more time.
Enter black and yellow and red and blue. Accompanied by bursts of stinging light and chilling dark. The bass is so hard it tickles my eardrums, my nipples, the balls of my feet, and my actual balls. Synth horns sound almost royal as they climb sky-high, scales that no actual horn could muster. I am drenched in sweat, throwing my arms here and there, moisture flying in all directions. My biceps are wrapped in fluffy armbands stuffed with dripping dollar bills—wilting flowers of dead green men. My headband has grown too wet to be of use, so I pitch it into the sea of heads beneath me.
I’ve never heard this remix of Ke$ha’s “Cannibal.” Leave it to DJ Mikey Makeout to pull something new out of his magic bag of sonic tricks.
Behind me are near-naked bartenders bursting with more muscles than every guy I’ve slept with in my life combined, pouring vodka-everythings for the gay men gathered at my feet. I shake my ass and tug my pair of 2(x)ist neon briefs up into my crack. I spin around, bend over a bit, showing the newly exposed flesh to the dance floor, straddling perfectly so drink orders can be pushed between my legs.
Now, as happens every once in a while, a drink-chilled hand takes firm hold of my ankle. I shiver from both temperature and possibility. A potential tip? I follow my standard operating procedure: I peek over my shoulder, one eyebrow cocked playfully, to find Sir Grabs-a-lot grinning or leering or grimacing from nerves—or, this time, sweetly smiling. A tip, for sure, and a good one. I pop my butt out, emphasizing the dimples on either cheek, and pivot to face him. A slow squat brings my bulge right to his face, and I hold steady like this for just a second before bending forward to bring my mouth to his ear.
“Well, hey there!” I shout.
The man currently down south is named Bruce. He’s a buyer for Calvin Klein and a total sweetheart. Many of my fellow go-gos wouldn’t know this, of course. They call him Palpatine (or Darth Shade-ius) after the wrinkled antagonist of the Star Wars movies. And sure, Bruce isn’t much of a looker—but so what? He’s one of the more respectful guys who come out on Friday. He is always happy to share his wealth without trying to sneak his middle finger up my butt or his wedding-banded hand around my junk; he just smiles, neatly folds large bills into my waistband, and after we chat, quietly retreats to the blazing darkness of the dance floor.
“Your new underwear is so cute!” Bruce says as he adorns it with a handful of five-dollar bills. “How are you?”
“I’m all right!” I shout over the transition into a mix of Katy Perry’s “Firework.” “Summer classes are ending soon, and I’m trying to graduate early. So I loaded up on hip-hop and modern workshops!”
“And yet you still make it out here? You are an inspiration, Chase. You’re chasing your dreams. Hey, how’s that for a nickname? Dream Chaser!”
“Very cute,” I say, throwing him a wink. “And how are you, Bruce?”
Do I have to be this chatty? Not really. But every go-go knows that the age of bitchy dancers who ignore you while you lavish them with singles is gone. Maybe in a better economy—but no more. Now you need to be cordial to the potential tipper, be they as nice as Bruce or less lovely, like so many other patrons. You must engage in conversation, smile, and laugh to make them comfortable, even if what you WANT to do is demand that they stop massaging your taint through your jockstrap.
Hardly anyone tips go-go boys anymore, anyway. Certainly no one under thirty. There are just too many stigmas attached—it’s creepy, it’s dirty, it’s pitiful. Nowadays, tippers are mostly drunk and giggly girls dragged to the club by their gay besties, generous tourists who don’t know a word of English aside from what their guidebooks tell them, and men like Bruce here (not to mention promoters trying to set an example and keep their dancers happy). Sucks for those of us who depend on this cash to cover the costs of our college tuition, rent, utilities, health insurance, and textbooks.
But I’m not just nice for the money. I’m nice because I’m nice. The very day I was hired here a year ago, I earned the nickname “Friendly Spice” (we go-go boys each have our own Spice Girls moniker). I guess it makes sense. While most of the dancers will say hey, give a hug and cheek-kiss to a potential tipper, and then return to dancing, every time I pop a squat, I end up down there for five minutes. It’s not just a pleasantry exchange, either—we’re talking full-blown discussions on topics ranging from literature to politics to the weather.
Outside, when I take a rare smoke break, I’m often flocked to by party boys for even more conversation. Everyone wants to gather around Friendly Spice. What can I say? They love me.
And I love them. I find people in general endlessly fascinating—what makes them tick, the things they do and say and dream of. Someday, I’ll take all the stories I’ve collected on the bar and go-go box or out on smoke breaks and put it in a novel or something. I definitely have enough material to write a series. The next Sex and the City, maybe. Wouldn’t that be a trip?
Bruce reaches into his wallet, rooting through the wad of cash.
“Thank you, as always, for helping me pay my tuition,” I say.
“You work hard for it, Dream Chaser. You keep working, and I’ll keep helping. By the way, I think your watch is broken.”
Bruce makes this joke every week. It’s funny because it’s so corny, and yet every week he repeats it with such enthusiasm. The watch he’s referring to is my tattoo: an old pocket watch on a golden chain. The circular timepiece rests just above my crotch, the chain looping up and around my navel. People always ask what it means, but I never tell them. It’s far more interesting to ask what THEY think it means.
I’ve heard a lot of interesting theories. None close to the truth. That’s a tale nobody wants to hear when I’m nearly naked, shoving my ass in their face.
The actual watch my tat is drawn from belonged to my grandfather, who died the day before my high school graduation. All through my childhood, he always had it on him; he’d wind it and hold it up to my face to teach me how to tell time the old-fashioned way. When he passed, I wanted to keep it—but that didn’t happen. My mom claimed it rightfully belonged to her, even though I was the one who went to the hospital to see Gramps every day and wind it for him. Last thing I heard from my sister was that Mom hawked it to pay for crack.
Yeah. Seriously. Let’s just say I come from an interesting family.
Crackhead drug-dealer mom. My dad, probably dead—but no one knows for sure. My stepdad, one abusive motherfucker.
And me, the gay go-go boy with a full ride to NYU, thanks to his dancing talents. My sister and Gramps were the only two who would speak to me after I legally emancipated myself when I turned sixteen. I lost my grandfather soon afterward. Well, not lost. He’s still a part of me. I see his watch every day in the mirror. No matter what else changes in this little life of mine—and plenty has, trust me—for the two of us, time stands still.
Bruce pinches my torso and mimes an attempt to wind the watch. “I think you need to take it into the shop, Dream Chaser!”
“I’ll be sure to do that.” I laugh. “Now I should probably get back to dancing. I don’t want to have to depend on YOU to bankroll my entire night’s earnings!”
“Wait,” Bruce says, holding me in a squat by my shoulders. “Take this. It should help you get the watch fixed. I expect to see the right time next weekend!”
He’s handing me a hundred-dollar bill.
“Whoa, now, Bruce. That’s a lot. I don’t want you refinancing your home just for this broken-down old watch.”
“You’d take it from a complete stranger, wouldn’t you?” he says, smiling widely beneath his bristly push broom mustache. “Happy Saturday, Chase.”
With that, he smiles, doffs an invisible hat, and disappears back into the fey fray of the main dance floor’s strobe explosion.
Wow. It usually takes me a full night to earn the cash Bruce just deposited in my skivvies. Another go-go boy might jump down from the bar and spend the rest of his shift smoking and screwing around with the others. Not me. No longer speaking to my family may mean freedom from their tyranny and terror, but it also means I’m a slave to debt and bills, sinking so deep in the red I can’t even remember what black looks like. And so I dance. Gotta make that bacon, baby. Gots to pay dem bills, chile!
Unfortunately for me, Bruce is far more an exception than the rule. Over the next hour, every man that approaches my spot at the back bar is there to cop a feel, and do so for free if he can swing it. I understand that I’m an attractive guy gyrating in close to nothing on a bar...But no one seems to understand that this is a JOB. You don’t eat the food a waiter serves and then screw him on the tip. You don’t accept a couch the delivery guys lug up to your apartment, then bid them adieu with nothing more than an ass slap. Alas, that’s the modus operandi of tonight’s crowd. I subject myself to a plethora of scrotal squeezes, rectal exams, and one guy who has the audacity to stick his mouth on the crotch area of my underwear, while giving me nothing more than his phone number. If it weren’t for the few guys like Bruce, I wouldn’t even make enough to pay for breakfast when I finally get out of here. Well, not until I cashed the check the club pays me, at least.
The truth? I’d rather not be here tonight. I’ve done four nights in a row at other parties in the city. My legs are sore and I had to use a pound of concealer to hide the dark circles around my raccoon eyes. But when you need to pay bills, it doesn’t matter how much you hurt. The box calls and you answer with your feet. Besides, Friday is the night I make the most tips, sometimes more than all the other nights combined.
